


A Radical Change in (Self) Perception

by AnyaElizabeth



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bodyswap, Christmas Fluff, First Time, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Secret Snarry Swap 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-07 06:14:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 57,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16848688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnyaElizabeth/pseuds/AnyaElizabeth
Summary: Harry should know better than to touch museum exhibits, especially in a magical museum. Now he's in trouble...





	A Radical Change in (Self) Perception

**Author's Note:**

> So my left brain said 'Oh, twenty thousand words of fluffy comedy, a reasonable proposition', but my right brain heard '50,000 WORDS OF PERSPECTIVE HOPS, BODYSWAP SEX AND FEELINGS, COMING RIGHT UP'. Also, I have to confess to my prompter, I have only seen the 2003 Freaky Friday, and I'm not sure this fic has kept as much of the flavour as I originally intended. Although it may be at least partially responsible for Punk!Snape...
> 
> Prompt 9 from ladyofsd: Freaky Friday the movie meets Snarry. After the unexpected switch, they both find out the other is gay. Harry also discovers Snape is a brilliant flyer, and Snape learns how excellent Harry is at teaching.

**Part One**

_Limestone Fertility Statue, Age Undetermined_

_This remarkable statue was found at an 1891 dig by the famous Wizarding pioneer and archaeologist Oliver McNeill. Rumours of a settlement of ancient wizardkind somewhere near modern-day Hogsmeade were confirmed at the McNeill site, where several early cauldrons and Bronze-Age talismans were recovered alongside fragments of pottery and armour._

_This artefact remains the most mysterious discovery from the dig. Although the presence of ancient magic has been confirmed, the statue's charm—or curse—has proved resistant to magical probes, including dating charms. Non-magical methods have also been at a loss. In many ways the sculpture resembles prehistoric Venus figurines such as the Venus of Willendorf, indicating that the artefact is significantly older than the settlement, but unlike typical Venus figurines, this talisman represents masculinity and femininity at once in a unique form reminiscent of depictions of the Roman god Janus. Neither the archaeologists who first came into contact with it nor the subsequent owners of the piece have reported any magical activity, although its magical signature remains strong to this day. It is also unclear if the figurine was first designed for magical purposes, or unearthed and charmed much later by wizards at the McNeill site._

Harry stared between the ageing notecard and the little figurine, amused at the dry description of the statue's _unique form_. What the figurine had, thought Harry with a repressed giggle, was a giant erection. 

Though the figure itself was squat and formless, with a rounded head and only a suggestion of limbs, the bulge protruding from between its legs would have made an actual man overbalance. Harry circled it, looking at the other side: this side of the figure was a female form, all rounded womanhood, large breasts drooping over a bulging stomach and a distinct V etched between her thighs. 

He stared at it for a moment and then walked back around to the male side, grinning. Honestly, Harry hadn't expected this trip to be half as interesting as it was, no matter what Hermione said about the matter.

There wasn't much in the way of facial features on either side of the thing—perhaps a scratch or two to represent eyebrows—but the male side most definitely had a nose. Harry was reminded suddenly of Snape.

Harry sighed. He was reminded of Snape more often than he cared to admit. He'd never quite forgiven the man for vanishing the moment his trial concluded. Harry had not expected it—Harry had imagined, for some reason, that Snape would want to connect with him after the trial. To mend bridges now he no longer _had_ to hate Harry. He'd imagined he would have the opportunity to tell Snape he forgave him his sins and valued his virtues, and then Snape would be... grateful, perhaps? It seemed unlikely. He was forgetting, of course, that being a tormented, brave, intelligent war hero did not prevent someone from also being an absolute bastard.

Harry had the strangest itch to touch the statue. 

He looked around for Ron and Hermione. Hogsmeade Village Museum was quiet and still. It was not a grand place, just a two-storey Georgian home, converted at some unknown point into a warren of dusty exhibit rooms. Hermione had obviously dragged Ron into the next one. 

Harry's mind drifted back to Snape. It had been five years since the war, three and a half years since he'd last seen the man. At that time, Hermione had just begun her Ministry career and Harry and Ron had taken the Auror positions they were offered.

A lot of things that Harry thought he knew had fallen apart that year. He'd been so sure that he would marry Ginny. He thought he'd be Head Auror one day. But on the week of Snape's sentencing, he'd sat, alone, in the space he'd dreamt would be his home, the living room cold and dusty from disuse. He'd sat, holding a dittany-soaked cloth to a bloodied curse scar, and realised that he hadn't seen anything but the Auror office or his bedroom ceiling in weeks. 

He'd already handed in his notice when Snape was declared not guilty. 

Then Snape promptly vanished, and another thing Harry thought he knew was gone.

Harry, without even noticing it, took a step closer to the statue.

Ginny was happier without him, a fast-rising Quidditch star. And Ron seemed to do better in the Aurors, now he was out of Harry's shadow. Harry was not happy, not exactly, but he was no longer _tired_ , no longer covered in unending human wickedness, sealed in a tomb of paperwork. At first, he'd tried travelling, seeing old friends, visiting new places, but he always found himself thinking of Hogwarts. It had only been three terms since he'd applied for the DADA post, but Harry already wondered why he'd thought about doing anything else. 

Harry, lost in his reverie, didn't notice his own hand moving. Instead, he watched the dust motes spiral in the light from the window behind him. He often wondered how Snape had found his first few years as a teacher. He'd been younger than Harry when he'd started his dubious career...

Then the movement drew his eyes to his own hand, reaching out as though pulled by a string. He tried to snatch it back to his chest, but it was too late, he was too close—he touched the cool stone totem, and a flash of golden light engulfed him.

*

Severus had barely had a second to reach for his wand before the gold light swallowed him completely. He blinked, dazzled, and clenched his hand, feeling the firm heavy weight of...

 _Not_ his wand. 

He looked down. In his right hand, inexplicably, was an obscene stone totem, but that was not what struck him first. The hand that held the thing, a hand he could now feel tingling with tension, was _not_ the hand that had previously been flicking through his book. The hand that held the totem was rough, tan and strong, with scruffy nails broken down to the quick.

He turned the hand over, stomach clenching as the alien limb did as he commanded. The back of the hand was, as he had seen from the other side, sun-kissed and masculine, though not as large or long as his own. There was a faint scar across it. 

_I must not tell lies._

Oh. Oh, no.

Severus took in his surroundings. He was alone, in a small room filled with glass shelves—a museum, he realised. Before him was an empty plinth; he read the notecard, then looked down at the little stone figure in his hands.

He didn't dare look down at himself. He didn't think he could face it just yet, to actually _focus_ on the scruffy Muggle clothes...

He took another quick glance at the empty room, and then shoved the ugly stone thing into the back pocket of his jeans. _The_ jeans. The jeans that were decidedly not his.

"Harry?" said a voice, confirming all of Severus's worst fears; he looked around into the concerned face of Hermione Granger, Ronald Weasley standing behind her with raised eyebrows.

"I am—" _not Harry,_ he tried. _Cursed. I've found myself in this body against my will._

None of the words would come out. He tried again.

"I—" he said, trying so desperately to get a sentence out that he felt a blood vessel pop in his nose. He raised a hand to the now-bleeding appendage; God, it was so _small_.

"I—don't feel well," he said, and fainted.

*

Harry opened his eyes to find himself in a comfortable chair, in front of a roaring fire.

 _Well, that could be worse_ , he thought, and then looked at his lap. His left hand was resting against his knee, holding a book, which Harry promptly dropped in surprise; in his right, he could feel the comforting warmth of a wand, deep in the pocket of his black robes. 

But there was something terribly, terribly wrong. His hand was pale and long, bigger than his hand should be and older too, with elegant fingers. He wiggled them; the resulting sight of the _wrong hand_ moving made him feel a bit nauseated. 

Harry took a deep, steadying breath. _Auror training,_ he thought. _Keep calm, be still, take stock._

The room he was in was very small and cosy, windowless, but lit by a gas lamp and the crackling fire. The room was filled to the brim with bookshelves and little else, the only other furniture a compact side table strewn with vials, parchment and abandoned teacups. Harry nearly jumped as he moved his head, startled by a shadow in the corner of his eye that he realised quickly was his own long hair. 

He looked down at those hands again. They were so familiar. With a sense of dread, Harry sat up straighter and reached for the dropped book.

_Potions Monthly, Issue 529._

His stomach sank.

Harry stood up, a twinge in his back generating an involuntary grunt. He scanned the room for a mirror, but there was none. This, he supposed, was no surprise. Setting _Potions Monthly_ down on the side table, Harry made for the exit, awkwardly tall, particularly in such an unusually low room. 

Beyond the door, to his surprise, was a narrow galley kitchen in stained wood, decorated with painted curls in green and gold. The ceiling was a wood-clad arch above him. The room he'd just left must have been magically expanded, since a glance back at it revealed that from this side it was little more than a doorway, framed by a wood-panelled wall that did not quite meet the curving ceiling. In the gap was what looked to be a bed space, tucked behind drawn velvet curtains and covered with scattered textiles. In front of him, past the kitchen, was a set of upholstered bench seats, similarly cosy and cushioned, and between them another door.

Harry was inside a caravan.

There still was no evidence of a mirror, but there was another small door to his left, which from this side appeared to be nothing more than a tall cupboard. He opened it—it held another magically-expanded room, a bathroom, with a narrow toilet, shower and basin. 

Harry stepped in, not looking at the area above the basin, trying to work up the courage to look in the mirror and see what he knew he was going to see.

He looked up. Severus Snape stared back at him.

It was almost funny to see Snape look so wide-eyed and alarmed, no trace of his usual scowl crossing his face. Aside from that, though, he looked much the same as he always had... perhaps a little more thin and pale than usual, his hair particularly lank, his eyes deeply shadowed. Snape was not known for his excellent personal care, but Harry felt his chest constrict a little at the sight.

He tilted his head up; the skin at his neck felt stiff, and the mess of pinkish-white scar tissue caught the light.

"Oh, God," he said, startled when it came out gravelly and low, and put Snape's face into Snape's hands.

After a moment, he looked up again. Hermione. Hermione was always the answer. He suspected she would now be with a rather panicked Snape-in-Harry. They were probably examining that damned stone totem right now, figuring out how to turn them back. He couldn't think of anyone smarter or more qualified.

But, of course, he had absolutely no idea where he was.

He left the bathroom and slid out past the kitchen to the caravan door. Like everything else, the door was varnished wood, with a brass handle and a little green curtain. He stepped outside, cautious; the sky was light at least, about the same sun as it had been in Hogsmeade, and the weather was a little warmer but still spoke of the northern hemisphere. Beyond the door was a dark forest, much like any that he'd spent his time in during the war, golden-brown and smelling of damp leaves. 

He circled the caravan; it was a beautiful, traditional wagon, gold-leafed and well-kept, with no obvious method of self-propulsion. It had a yoke for a horse, although there was no evidence of hooves in the ground around it. There was no evidence of a path, either. 

It was harder to Apparate if you didn't know at least roughly where you were, and Harry was no great fan of it as it was, so he headed back into the caravan to look for an alternative method of transport. He bashed his head on the doorframe on the way inside.

Under one of the benches, he found a broom, a Nimbus 2001. Smiling, Harry took it outside and rose into the air above the caravan. It was weird, flying with a body so much longer and thinner than his, but to his surprise Snape's limbs curled about the broom comfortably, taking the Quidditch form as though it were familiar.

He surveyed the forest below him; he was reassured to see it was a small wood, filling the dip of a valley and surrounded by the curves of grassy farmland. He flew higher—he could see the glitter of coastline in the distance. It all looked very English, but Harry struggled to believe it; he'd gone to some pains to try to find Snape in Britain and had felt _sure_ he must have left the country.

He sank down again, dismounting smoothly—it was strangely pleasing, how this body seemed so naturally inclined to grace—and left the broom resting against the caravan whilst he put out the lamps and endeavoured to leave the place in some sort of respectable state. He did not know when Snape would be back. 

Though he did not want to admit it, Harry lingered a little over the tidying, examining the scene of Snape's life. It all seemed so... small. A tea set for one, teabags and sugar, a substantial stash of tins and jars of food. A cauldron and gloves tucked neatly away, good quality but small, the type in which you might create a quick headache potion rather than an impressive brew. Although the caravan itself was gaudy and joyful, the life lived within it seemed depressingly austere. 

The library was the only space that looked anything like indulgent. Harry ran his hands over the spines of the books, feeling the familiar crackle of preserving charms. He pulled one out at random, wondering if Snape had lost his habit of writing in the margins; it seemed he had simply refined his technique, since the book he chose fairly bristled with parchment bookmarks. He opened the book, another potions journal, and read the first chapter heading: 

_Strides in the Field of Healing Potions For Nerve Damage, by M. L. Robustier._

Harry ignored the chapter itself in favour of reading Snape's slightly cryptic bookmark notes, smiling to himself at the familiar scathing tone.

_Robustier, as always, jumping to conc re: dittany._

_Not D. again! A positive fetish._

_2xCCWT 1x CWT then 5 B.E. ONE AT A TIME._

_Absurd case study; misses obvious significance of assistant's feelings when adding the Rosehip. W/ever R blathers on about objectivity, intent counts in potions as much as any other magic._

_RE: line 30—urgh, I give up._

Harry set the book back carefully. Much as he wanted to read more, much as he wanted to sink back into that sense of discovery and delighted amusement he'd had reading the Half-Blood Prince's words, he had a rather urgent body-swap to attend to.

Caravan locked and warded, Harry cast a Disillusionment Charm over himself and took to the sky. There were signs of a village by the coast, smoke rising and the snake of a road; hopefully he would find answers there.

*

Severus woke to a familiar, deeply unwelcome ceiling. Although it seemed somewhat blurrier than usual.

"Harry!" said Granger, by his bedside. "You're awake, thank God. What happened?"

"I have absolutely no idea," said Severus honestly, squinting at her. Granger passed him something—he reached out blindly. _Ah_. Potter's glasses.

He put them on and looked back to Granger, now able to take in the full impact of her disapproving expression.

"Poppy says there's nothing obviously wrong with you." Severus snorted at the absurdity of this; Granger, apparently taking this as a joke, repressed a smile. "She thinks it's likely something mundane. When was the last time you ate?"

"No idea," answered Severus again, although now she came to mention it there was a distinct gnawing feeling in Potter's stomach. Granger's scowl deepened.

"I thought you'd left that particular bad habit behind with the Aurors," she said. Severus's eyebrows raised; Potter was no longer an Auror?

"Wotcher, Harry," said Weasley dryly, strolling up to the bed, wiping damp hands on his robe. "Nice of you to join us again."

"Harry doesn't know when he last ate," said Granger sternly.

"Oh, not again," said Weasley. "Ah well, at least we're in the right place. My prescription is the Hogwarts kitchens."

Severus scowled; Potter wasn't looking after himself? After all the effort Severus had gone to, keeping the boy alive? After all the effort the boy himself had gone to, to pull himself back to the land of the living?

Apparently scowling was the expected expression in response to this, because Weasley and Granger shared a look. 

Then Poppy bustled over. Severus may have had his fill of the Hogwarts hospital wing, but he was surprised at the burst of warmth in his chest at the sight of her. 

Must be Potter's defective biology.

"He says he doesn't remember when he last ate," said Granger again, and all three of them now regarded him with a stern glare.

Severus shrugged.

"Don't look at me, I think I'm an idiot as well," he said, folding Potter's arms.

"Well, at least he seems himself," said Weasley, grinning, which was strange because Severus was making absolutely no attempt to behave like Potter at all.

"May we take him to his rooms for some food?" said Granger to Poppy.

"I'm right here, feel free to address me directly," said Severus, aware of the irony. 

But... Potter's _rooms_? Sweet Merlin, was he a teacher?

"You may," said Poppy, ignoring him.

"Come on, then, you prat," said Weasley genially, looping an arm under his bent right elbow and tugging him off the bed. "Let's go enjoy some Hogwarts hospitality."

Severus had no idea where Potter's rooms were located, but mercifully Granger led the way. Severus hung back a little, still dizzy and uncomfortable with Potter's shorter gait. To his annoyance, Weasley kept his arm locked around his.

"Go on then, fess up," said the ginger man softly. "I think the fainting was real, but the nosebleed? It was Nosebleed Nougat, right?"

 _No, Weasley, it was an attempt to tell you that I AM NOT POTTER_ , thought Severus.

"No," he said bluntly, as much of that sentence as he could manage. He was beginning to get a headache.

"Really?" said Weasley. "Well, thanks anyway. When you fainted Hermione was about to show me an exciting collection of prehistoric rocks."

Despite himself, Severus smirked.

Granger stopped in front of a door somewhere on the sixth floor, fairly close to Gryffindor tower. She looked at Severus-Harry expectantly.

"The wards?" she said gently, when Severus didn't react. "They only respond to you..."

She looked a little worried about him. Severus felt, to his annoyance, vaguely guilty. Damn that Potter boy, gallivanting about without a care and forcing everyone around him to fret.

Hoping his touch was all that was required, Severus stepped forward and turned the handle. The door opened with a soft click.

Potter's rooms were not unlike Severus's old rooms in layout, a small lounge with a door at each side of the room, leading to a bedroom and a bathroom respectively. They were, however, much brighter than his dungeon haunt, lit by a wide window with a view of the grounds and bedecked in red and gold curtains. There was, to his surprise, a substantial bookshelf, as well as a sort of organised chaos of clutter; trinkets on the mantelpiece: marking piled on his desk, a quill and ink abandoned on the coffee table. A magazine lay over the arm of one sofa, and a cloak lay over the armchair.

Weasley walked over to the bell-pull by the mantelpiece; warily, Severus sat in the armchair by the fire, and Granger took the sofa.

Weasley pulled the bell. A moment later, a house-elf appeared.

"Hi there, can we get some sandwiches please?" said Weasley, leaning against the mantelpiece. "And maybe a bit of cake? Oh, and a jug of pumpkin juice, and some tea. And perhaps biscuits. Or is that overkill?"

Granger stared at Weasley, who shrugged.

"For Harry," he said. "He's very weak, you know. Needs sustenance."

Severus tried to raise an eyebrow, but Potter's brows didn't comply, one eyebrow irresistibly following the other upwards. Granger rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. Weasley sat down next to her, his arm resting along the top of the chair behind her back, and Granger leaned into him a little.

"So," she said seriously. "What's precipitated this lack of interest in food? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," said Severus reluctantly, aware he couldn't really say much else since he had no idea why Potter skipped meals, or even if that were the cause of the fainting.

Granger did not look convinced; Weasley stared vaguely towards Potter's desk, troubled. Severus sat silently for a moment, cursing the Potter boy for his inability to keep his hands to himself. Honestly, who picked up a museum exhibit? Had he even read the notecard? No, of course not, Potter was an idiot and a Gryffindor and he probably thought that poking magical exhibits was his right. And now Severus was here, expected to smooth over the consequences of his irresponsibility.

Not that he was at all _required_ to. He could probably just reduce Granger to tears, insult Weasley, tell them he didn't want to know them any more. He could wreak all sorts of havoc on Potter's life. 

Something hot and familiar tightened in his chest. To _finally_ see the boy get what he—

But just as soon as the feeling had gripped him, it fell away, leaving empty bleakness. Potter _didn't_ deserve it. He knew perfectly well that the boy had never deserved it. Harry Potter was abused and scared and brave and fierce and _good._ He was not his father, and could never have been; he abhorred the kind of cruelty James had enjoyed. 

The same cruelty that oozed from Severus's every pore, toxic as potion fumes.

Granger was still looking at him, all warm brown eyes and forehead-wrinkling worry.

"I've been distracted, that's all," he found himself saying. "Marking, lesson plans, detentions..."

"How much can you have to mark, with two weeks until Christmas break?" said Granger. "And you've given out a grand total of one detention so far. Also, your lesson plans are perfect, as I told you when we went through them together."

"I know, I know," said Severus smoothly, internally impatient with himself. He was clearly out of practice being a duplicitous liar. "I was joking, of course. I was... distracted by..."

"Oh, wait, I know!" said Weasley. _Finally_ , thought Severus impatiently, _give me something to work with_. "It's a bloke, right? You're distracted by a bloke!"

Severus didn't know if he'd managed to make Potter's expression look neutral. What on earth did _that_ mean? Surely not... he would know...

 _When in doubt,_ thought Severus, _keep your mouth shut._

Granger, taking in his guarded look, suddenly smiled a slow smile.

"Oh..." she said, "It _is_ a bloke! Er, a man."

Severus said nothing.

"Ha!" said Weasley. "Thank Merlin, finally, I was beginning to worry. Who is it? Someone in Hogsmeade, it must be..."

"That certainly would explain why you agreed to come to the museum," said Granger dryly, and Weasley suddenly looked shifty. "Does he work there?"

Damn, a direct question. Severus tried a shrug.

"Nah," said Weasley, "The only guy we saw was like, a hundred and two. Someone who goes to the Three Broomsticks? Do you have his name? Have you spoken yet? Does he like blokes too? Are you going to ask him out?"

 _Well,_ thought Severus, _that sounded pretty conclusive_. Harry Potter fancied men. 

Severus involuntarily recalled some of Potter's memories, bathed in a new and sickly light—those endless thoughts of Diggory, moments of Potter admiring a young Sirius Black, thinking him handsome, _urgh_... and maybe even Lupin too, those kind amber eyes looking down at him, Merlin the boy had terrible taste...

Severus was surprised he hadn't noticed before. Then again, he'd had every reason to avoid the thought.

"I am... not ready to talk about it," he said, which was true. He would never be ready to gossip about Potter's love life. 

Granger's face practically melted. 

"Of course," she said gently. 

"Go get 'em, Harry," said Weasley, laughing at the alarm on Severus-Harry's face. "Oh look, saved by the tea."

Granger, still smiling, poured them each a cup of tea, and then took up a sandwich with her other hand. Severus pulled his teacup towards himself and added his usual three heaped teaspoons of sugar.

Weasley raised his eyebrows.

"Best raise my blood sugar if I'm to stay conscious," said Severus warily, and Weasley grinned. 

The three of them set to eating without further conversation, which was a mercy. Somehow, things tasted different in Potter's mouth. The pumpkin juice was unusually palatable. He felt hungrier than usual, and more restless. And of course, there was the immense pleasure of being able to eat without the discomfort caused by a throat filled with scar tissue.

Reaching for his second biscuit, he contemplated for the first time that there were certain advantages to being Potter. Actually... there were a _lot_ of advantages. Certainly, he'd never been particularly attached to his own skinny, scarred body, and the difficult reputation of its owner.

He pushed the thought aside. If he knew Potter, he'd have rushed out of Severus's caravan and out into the world, probably without even locking the door. He'd be on his way to them now, and keen to get his body back.

"I think I need a nap after that," said Weasley, although he still had a slice of coffee cake in one hand. "Feel better, Harry?"

"Much," said Severus.

"Alright," said Granger, "But take it easy, Harry. You look kind of tired."

"I am," agreed Severus again, hoping they'd take that as a hint. Weasley and Granger did take it, rising to their feet in unison. 

"Right then," said Weasley, "We should leave you to it. But you know where we are, and you can tell us anything. About Hogsmeade blokes, or anything else. Right?"

"Yes," said Severus, internally squirming. He wasn't used to such outpourings of sentiment. Were they always like this? They behaved like Potter's parents... 

The thought brought a lurch to his stomach. It was partly an ancient, omnipresent guilt, but it was also pity, and... envy, he supposed.

"Thank you," he added, because they were both looking worried. "I'll see you soon I'm sure."

"Yeah, see you at the Burrow, if not before," said Weasley, and clapped a firm hand on his arm.

"See you soon, Harry," said Granger, swooping in for a hug. Severus patted her back awkwardly; Granger did not seem deterred—or surprised—by his unease.

Weasley stoked the fire, taking a pinch of Floo powder from a Chudley Cannons ashtray on the mantel.

"Ten, Windsor Street," he said clearly, and was sucked away.

"Oh, and don't think you can be coy forever," said Granger with a grin, and followed her boyfriend in a whirl of green flame.

Severus fell back into the armchair, one hand over his eyes.

*

The flight to the little village had taken longer than he thought; his thighs—or rather Snape's thighs—were stiff and aching. Harry set down in a secluded lane, shrank the broom and made for the main street.

It became immediately obvious to Harry, upon emerging from the lane, that Snape _had_ left England. The nearest shop declared itself to be _Maison Georges,_ a picture of a baguette and the word _boulangerie_ on the hanging sign. The shop beyond it had a picture of a cauldron, and the word _Apothicaire._ A Wizarding village? That was interesting. He headed for it, optimistically hoping for an English speaker; he knew barely a word of French.

There was a bell on the door; the tinkling immediately brought the attention of the shop attendant, who looked up at him and smiled warmly. 

"Ah, Sev!" she said, immediately coming out from behind the counter and striding towards him.

" _Bonjour, ça va? Tu as l'air malade..._ "

"Er, _bonjour_ ," said Harry, panicking. The shopkeeper's forehead creased, obviously bemused by his response, or perhaps it was just Harry's awkwardness. 

Harry was not thrilled to discover at this moment that Snape could blush just like any other human.

 _Malade_ , he thought. That sounded like _mal_. Mal meant bad, he knew that one well enough. 

" _Oui, malade_ ," he tried, adding some hoarseness for dramatic effect, which was admittedly easy with Snape's damaged throat. He grabbed a shelf and buckled his knees a little, feigning dizziness. He hoped that this would cover his sudden absence of French.

The place was definitely a magical apothecary; he'd nearly put his hand in a bowl of beetle eyes. 

He had a thought. 

"Er... le floo?" he said hopefully.

The shopkeeper's concerned gaze focused sharply.

"Le... floo?" she said, and then laughed. " _Ah, oui!_ "

She beckoned him into the back room. It was cosy and cluttered, a cross between a stock room and a living room, and it had a roaring fire.

" _Ici, ici... la poudre de cheminette_."

She held out a dish of Floopowder. He reached for it; she drew it away.

" _Poudre de cheminette_ ," she repeated slowly, looking at him expectantly.

" _Poudre de cheminette_ ," he repeated, as best he could. She smiled.

" _Bon!_ " she said. " _Mieux tous les jours._ "

"Merci," said Harry, emboldened by this obvious praise, though he did not know what exactly she had said. He took the powder gratefully. 

"Harry Potter's rooms, Hogwarts," he said, as he cast a little toward the fire. The shopkeeper raised her eyebrows at this.

"'arry Potter?" she said. " _Ça doit être sérieux!_ "

" _Merci, au revoir_ ," said Harry, using the last two words of French he had and smiling apologetically. Then he stepped away into the flames.

*

Severus spent only a few minutes pondering the situation until curiosity got the better of him. He got up, and looked at Potter's bookshelf.

Potter, of course, didn't seem to keep his books in any sort of order. There were duelling reference books and great Dark Arts tomes muddled in with Quidditch albums and paperback novels. The shelves were stacked horizontally, vertically and every way in between. 

The bookshelf held no particular surprises, so Severus turned instead to the desk. Potter appeared to have finished a batch of marking recently; Severus read the top essay with curiosity, more interested in Potter's comments than the homework itself.

Potter's handwriting was neat, careful and rounded, like a primary school teacher's. He was surprisingly thorough and relentlessly positive in his feedback, peppering the paper with 'Well done!' and 'excellent observation,' and asking gentle questions at the points where Severus would have called the student a dunderhead. At the bottom, the grade was not as excessively generous as Severus expected, but Potter finished with a personal touch, adding another compliment on the student's progress and suggesting further reading and practices that might improve their understanding. 

Severus set the essay down, vaguely annoyed. Of _course_ Potter was a thorough, devoted teacher. Potter, after all, had apparently chosen this career. He probably loved the brats. Severus himself had never wanted to be around children, even when he was one, and as such had only been interested in two things in his classroom: absolute compliance, and the strong deterrence of any non-classroom contact. Notwithstanding detentions, of course.

It was a bit much that Potter also seemed intelligent and insightful, though. Could three years change so much?

He looked over the desk with disdain, looking for something to distract him. Potter's desk drawer was slightly open—he pulled it wide, and pulled out a stack of paper with curiosity. The parchment crackled with protective charms.

 _Dear Professor Potter,_ the first one read. _Thank you so much for everything you've done this year—who'd have thought I'd go from worst in the class to an O at NEWT level? You're the best..._

Severus scowled and shuffled through the rest. Thank you cards, newspaper clippings of recent graduates, a poem written by three first years about how much they enjoyed his class; an outpouring of student love for the Professor Who Lived. 

Severus set them down, refusing to acknowledge that the ache in his chest could be anything like envy. Severus didn't want love, didn't need approval—or at least, he'd given up pursuing them. Whatever it was that made a person loveable, he knew that he did not possess it. He could not create it or coerce it. Even Lily, whose love overflowed like an endless fountain... even she had eventually given up on him.

The fireplace crackled with a welcome distraction of green flame. Severus closed the drawer hurriedly and crossed his arms, leaning casually against the desk. A figure stepped out of the fire a moment later, graceful at first until he caught his head on the mantel, stumbled back a bit and kicked a cloud of soot out into the room. 

"Ow! Bloody lanky sod—" said Severus's voice, then began a fit of coughing. Severus scowled and reached into his pocket for his wand—Potter's stupid wand, in fact—to Scourgify the dust.

"Oh," said the Harry-Snape, looking up at him with surprise. "Oh, you're here. Good."

"Yes. Wonderful," said Severus darkly.

Potter-in-his-body was a curious sight. Severus was familiar with the feeling of watching one's body from the outside, but this was very different from a Pensieve. Potter had stuck Severus's hands into his pockets, and his long hair was tucked behind his ears, and even his posture was more Potterish, some slight shrinking away from being tall and noticeable.

Severus scoffed to himself. He was no great fan of his physical form, but the one thing it did have was _presence_. Potter's awkward stance did it no favours.

"And I'll ask you to refrain from damaging my body," said Severus. Potter rubbed his head ruefully.

"Sorry," he said, and then promptly sat down in a tangle of long, loose limbs. Severus never sat like that, relaxed and lazy and unselfconscious. It looked... odd.

"I'm exhausted," said Potter.

"I hope you've been feeding my body, Potter."

Potter shifted awkwardly in his seat.

"Why? _You_ don't seem to," he said. "God, Snape, you're bony as hell. And you have so much leg!" 

Potter stared at the offending limbs, then slung them over the arm of the chair. Severus, uneasy, crossed over to the bell pull.

"More sandwiches. Please," he said to the Elf, who nodded.

Potter just stared at him for a moment. God, if the boy kept making such gormless expressions with _his_ face—

Then Potter grinned. That was worse, like an alien wearing a Snape-skin mask.

"God, you really manage to make _me_ look like _you,_ " said Potter.

"I was just thinking the same thing," said Severus darkly.

"So..." continued Potter, reaching up to ruffle through his long, greasy hair, and then drawing it away quickly with a vaguely horrified expression. It was in a bad state even to Severus, who could not be persuaded to care for it at the best of times, and especially did not when he was sequestered in his caravan alone for the foreseeable future.

"What the hell are we going to do about this?"

Severus sat down opposite Potter, careful to make it a more graceful and measured movement than Potter's slump, even if he wasn't yet entirely used to Potter's compact dimensions. He poured a tea from the freshly-summoned teapot.

"First question, Potter," he said, producing the stone totem from his pocket. "Why on _earth_ did you touch it?"

"It was involuntary," said Potter, staring at it. "My hand reached out of its own accord. I was distracted. Did you _steal_ it?"

Once upon a time, Severus might have accused Potter of lying. He didn't think so now.

"Interesting," he said. To exert control over a wizard like that, the totem must have a significant power to it. "And yes, it seemed prudent."

Potter seemed to accept this.

"I was thinking about you at the time, actually," he added.

"That could be significant," said Severus.

"Yeah, that's why I said it," said Potter. Severus scowled. He really wasn't sure which he hated more—when Potter was an idiot, or when he wasn't.

Severus couldn't remember what he was thinking about when he changed. He was quite determined that he could not have been thinking about Potter. He deliberately didn't think of his old life, before the fall of the Dark Lord. And he certainly did not find himself wallowing in old pain.

Severus considered the totem. An ancient object like that—a powerful object—there would be accounts of other body swaps somewhere. Perhaps they would hold the answer.

"Is it possible the curse might end on its own?" said Potter.

"Yes," said Severus. "Or it may be permanent. We have very little to go on. The only logical option is research."

Potter pulled an unflattering face, but didn't disagree.

"So... I saw a Muggle film about this sort of thing..." he said slowly. Severus snorted.

"Hear me out," complained Potter. "I mean, it was a long time ago, but... in the film, the people who swapped had trouble seeing the other's point of view. They only swapped back when they settled their differences... understood each other better."

Severus crossed his arms again.

"Potter, we have nothing to settle."

Potter raised his eyebrows.

"Um," he said. "Well, that's news to me."

Severus sighed. He wasn't lying, not exactly—the facts of each other's lives had been laid out over and over again, relived in Pensieves and Occlumency lessons and long, arduous Ministry proceedings after the Battle. They could make no more progress because there was no new information. He knew who Potter was, and Potter knew far too much about Severus... and it all left Severus as cold and bitter and cursed as he had always been.

"There is nothing left to say," he said.

"Oh, really?" said Potter, straightening up. Something about Potter's intense, open emotion seemed to make Severus's face look younger, his body alive. "So you don't want to talk about, oh, I don't know... the fact that you loved my mother? That you're responsible for her death? The fact that you've been a _relentless_ bastard to me since I was a child? The fact that you _hate_ me?"

"You are in possession of the facts," said Severus. "What more is there?"

"Oh, right," said Potter dryly. "So, there's nothing you want to add?"

"What do you want, Potter? Apologies? Warmth and kindness? Do you want to be _friends_? As you so _astutely_ observed, I _hate_ you. I hate your existence. I hate you as a symbol of every wrong and terrible thing I have done. I hate you for reminding me of my weaknesses. I hate you for your ignorance, and I hate you for your strength. All I have left is hate, it is immutable, it is built into every fibre of my being and it is _all for you_."

Once upon a time, a tirade like this would have set Potter off, wound him up into a Gryffindor fire at the injustice of being hated for things that he did not control, things that happened to others long ago, things that were not his fault. Today, Potter's expression twisted, but he did not fight back. 

He took a deep breath.

"You're right, we _do_ know each other pretty well," he said, and his voice was dark and slightly dangerous. "And I know something you wish I didn't know. You are _not_ just hate. Hate is a thin barrier between you and what you're really made of."

Severus stood up and stormed over to the window, cursing his lack of billowing robes. Merlin help him, he'd murder the boy if he finished that thought, if he said something ridiculous like _love_. Retrieving his original body be damned.

Potter had more mercy than Severus. He did not finish the sentence.

"If the totem wants us to be _friends_ ," said Severus eventually, "I fear we will be stuck this way for a very long time indeed."

"In that case..." said Potter wearily. Severus hated the way his once-smooth voice now rasped. "I'm going to take this sandwich and get into bed. I feel like I could sleep for a week. You can stay on the sofa if you like, make yourself at home. We can figure this thing out later."

Potter took a stack of sandwiches and fairly dragged Severus's body away, into the bedroom. He shut the door with a snap.

Severus collapsed against the window frame, exhausted.

Severus knew that he did not really hate Potter. He knew it deep in some wordless place inside him. He had spent every day for a very long time practising the art of repressing that knowledge. Of lying about it. To Potter, to Voldemort, even to Dumbledore, and especially to himself. 

But the idea that the totem wanted them to make amends—it wasn't an unreasonable suggestion, and though there would be shame at admitting he might not utterly loathe James Potter's spawn, shame was a familiar face. He closed his eyes and thought about it—of telling Potter he did not hate him, of admitting that everything he held against the boy was a manifestation of his own self-hatred. Imagined Potter's face softening, those green eyes kind, sympathetic. Perhaps even pleased. Imagined him reaching out—

 _No_ , thought Severus. No, he could not do it. He would not. Potter could not know it, even if it cursed them both forever.

He transfigured the sofa into a reasonably passable bed, turned Potter's dreadful knitted jumper into a blanket, and settled quickly into sleep.

*

Harry shut his bedroom door, restraining himself from the mortar-cracking slam he wanted to give it.

He hated Severus Snape. He _hated_ him. Harry had _finally_ had his moment with him, the moment he'd been hoping for since finding Snape alive and half-healed by phoenix tears. Harry had reached out, made his first real effort to make peace, and what had Snape done? Dismissed it, and then ranted at him. 

Harry _knew_ it was a cover. Well, thought it was. _Hoped_ it was. Snape _knew_ him, knew his secret thoughts and private daydreams, had been present at so many of the moments that had forged Harry's very essence. He might hate him as a symbol, but he could not really hate _him_. Could he?

Harry was by no means sure of his assessment. He had very little to go on. Snape never said anything positive about anyone; even his compliments were for show. 

Harry pressed the heel of his left hand into his temple. He really did have a headache, and he wasn't thinking straight through his frustration. He forced himself, resentfully, to eat a triangle of sandwich, surprised at how uncomfortable it was to swallow it past the scars in Snape's throat.

His bed looked soft and inviting, a pillowy pile of red and gold covers. He sank into it, wincing at the way his knees clicked, and was asleep within moments.

**Part Two**

Severus was awoken by the dawn light streaming in through the open curtains of the sitting room. 

That, and an urgent pressing in his bladder. Severus kept his eyes firmly closed for a long moment, trying to stay asleep... until he realised the implications of that persistent pain.

He was still in Potter's body. He could tell, because his throat did not hurt. He was still in Potter's body, and Potter's body needed to urinate.

 _No_ , he thought. _No, that was unacceptable._ He wouldn't, he wouldn't do it, wouldn't do any of the necessary touching of Potter's intimate parts. It was too much of a humiliation to bear.

It had been a long time since the tea, however. A very long, almost unbearably long time.

Severus cursed, and pushed his way up to standing. For all he knew, he was stuck in Potter's body for the foreseeable future, and that came with certain unavoidable realities.

Then Severus was forced to confront another unavoidable reality when he realised that Potter's body also sported a morning erection, pressing uncomfortably against the front of his jeans.

Severus took a deep breath. Well, he was _not_ going to sort that out the way he might consider solving his own. 

He dashed to the bathroom, locked the door, turned on the cold tap and flung a considerable quantity of icy water over his face, eyes closed tightly. Keeping them closed, cold water dripping down his neck and chest, he took several deep breaths.

Well, this was ridiculous. What, exactly, was he being prudish about? A bodily function he performed with his own body all the time. Something everyone did, and something Potter was going to have to do in _his_ body as soon as he awoke. 

Severus moved to the toilet, eyes fixed upon the wall above the cistern. It took several moments for anything to happen, and what felt like an eternity for the stream to cease.

Unavoidable function completed, Severus turned back to the sink to wash his hands, this time catching his reflection properly for the first time. It was... a complete blur. With all the staring at the wall and the bright bloom of the dawn light, he'd failed to notice that he'd not put on Potter's wretched glasses. 

Severus wiped his wet hands and then fished Potter's wand out and put it to his temple, muttering an eyesight charm, circling his wand gently until the world came into focus. Potter probably didn't use it, reflected Severus, because it required patience and concentration.

Then Severus stopped the spell, and looked into the mirror properly.

Potter looked back at him, his face naked without the glasses, his eyes startlingly bright. Potter's face was all cheekbones and jawline, simultaneously masculine and fey, and his over-large t-shirt dipped over a smooth chest and collarbone. Severus's defensive hunch, when worn by Potter, did nothing so much as show off the muscles of Potter's slim frame, tension evident in the tanned biceps that emerged from Potter's loose sleeves.

Severus swallowed. The sight of Potter as a man, at once familiar and new, sent shivers down his spine. And the appealing blush that was blooming over Potter's cheeks, Potter's pupils dilating—

Oh, _God_ , thought Severus and he looked away. How utterly, utterly cruel.

He had to get out of this body. His inner Slytherin might have considered trying to stay a young, healthy and universally idolised man, but Severus knew that if he had to see the absolutely perfect form of his greatest living nemesis in the mirror much more, he would be driven mad.

He went out into Potter's lounge and sat at his desk, summoning a quill and parchment. He had research to plan.

*

Harry was dreaming. It was about Snape, he knew, but unlike the Snape of Harry's nightmares this time he was not looming over Harry, or dying on the floor; Harry couldn't see him at all, in fact, saw nothing but darkness. He could only _feel_ him, feel his magic and his presence, like a blanket over him, as though the whole of Snape was pressed against him, warm and heavy... almost suffocating, and he had a hand clenched over his throat, but it was good, so good, so very...

Harry's eyes flew open. His throat was throbbing unpleasantly, and his duvet was heavy and oppressively hot. He pushed it off him, trying to shake off the uneasy feelings of his dream, and looked down at his body.

Not his body. No, not his body at all. This body, still in the robe from yesterday, was long and lean, black fabric sliding over bony knees, and higher up it was lifted slightly by... by...

Severus Snape's erection.

Harry stared at it. He knew, on some level, that he should find it disgusting—that he should find all of Snape's body disgusting. But somehow, now he was _in_ it, now he could feel the rasp of cotton against it as he breathed, now he could feel the aching throat and a faint itch at the ankle and, and, the persistent throb of that cock—

It was... not horrible.

Of course not, thought Harry impatiently. For all that he'd called him a greasy git, Snape's _body_ was just a body, like any other, neglected and a bit unusual, but nothing worthy of revulsion. No, Snape's personality was what inspired the disgust, and thinking otherwise was a childish perspective.

Snape's body, right now, itched for contact. But that was a line Harry was not going to cross.

There was another sensation in that particular region, however. A familiar, pressing ache...

 _Oh, bugger_ , thought Harry. He needed the loo.

After a minute of despair, he opened his eyes to glare at the ceiling. _Buck up Potter, we do what we have to do,_ he told himself, in a manner reminiscent of Head Auror Robards. 

Harry put his hand out to his nightstand to pick up his glasses, which were, of course, not there. Well, that was one nice thing about being in Snape's body.

Gritting his teeth, he got out of bed and headed for his lounge. He liked to think he didn't hesitate before opening the door. And that he wasn't trying to open it as quietly as possible.

Snape-in-Harry was, to Harry's surprise, seated at his desk. He'd moved all of Harry's things onto the floor, and was scribbling over a parchment, several more pieces scattered over the surface. Harry was reminded of teenage Snape, bending so close over his exam paper his nose nearly touched it. Harry wondered what it was like, to be so... passionate about something like that. Harry had _enthusiasm_ in spades, for things like Quidditch, for the first day of a new class, for kissing, for the promise of an adventure, for things he could _do_. But never a consuming passion for some _thing_ , and especially not an academic one, never an obsession that kept him up at night—unless strangling Malfoy or ending the Dark Lord counted.

Or spitting Snape, couldn't forget that one.

"Just get it over with, Potter," snapped Snape-in-Harry, without looking up. "You're making me look like a gormless fool."

"Just taking in the absurdity of it all," said Harry dryly, then laughed internally at how Snapeish it sounded, in Snape's voice. Snape looked up then, as if he'd noticed too. Harry looked down his nose at him and raised one eyebrow. Snape, for a moment, almost looked _amused._

Perhaps it was just something about Harry's face.

Then Harry remembered what he was doing, and his amusement withered.

"Er, see you in a bit," he said, and swept into the bathroom.

*

Potter was an unsettlingly long time in the bathroom. Severus's concentration was completely blown. What was he _doing_ in there? Was he looking at his body? Was he in a dead faint from the horror? Surely he couldn't be indulging in what Severus had determinedly foregone...

It did not disturb him as much as he might have thought, to think of Potter touching himself in Severus's body. It more... irritated him. It was _his_ body, _he_ ought to be getting the pleasure... Severus felt a cold horror washing over him. He would _not_ follow that line of thought.

Potter finally emerged, looking sheepish. He had pulled Severus's hair back in a ponytail.

Severus stared at him.

"You were... a long time, Potter."

"Sorry," he said. "It's tricky using the bathroom with your eyes closed."

And he grinned, the expression wonky and strange on Severus's face. Severus just kept looking at him.

"I'm joking," said Potter. "I didn't really keep my eyes closed, I was just a while trying to get your hair out of my—your—eyes. Not that I _looked_ at... er...."

"Potter," said Severus, with a slow, deep fervour, "Please stop talking."

"I don't think I should," said Harry, tucking hair behind his ear. "I think this needs to be said. Um, whatever you have to do in my body, whatever you see, you know, it's okay. That's just... the reality of the situation, it doesn't have to be a big deal."

Severus sighed.

"How generous, Potter. I, of course, extend no such consent."

Severus couldn't say he exactly _enjoyed_ seeing his own face twisted into that bemused-panicked-frustrated expression, but the knowledge that it was really Potter's panic helped.

Then he gave Severus a dark look. Much better.

"Yes, I see your point," said Potter. That was interesting; Potter had never before shown even the slightest ability to identify when Severus was making a point. "But it _does_ make a difference. Me saying it's okay."

"If you say so," said Severus. Potter looked anxious, and he considered the issue. The damage was done, his body and privacy were violated, but he supposed it meant nothing when compared to what Potter had already seen of Severus. He knew too much. He knew _almost_ every secret Severus had. He'd seen or glimpsed all the worst moments of his life, he'd seen all the weakness, the pain and the grief and the relentless shame.

Once, Severus would have thought this with anger, with humiliation. Once, he might have lashed out at Potter for it, as though it were his fault, and later justified it by telling himself that it was part of his role as a spy and that the arrogant boy deserved it anyway.

Today, it seemed pointless.

"For what it's worth," he said, "It is of little consequence to me what you see of my body, and doubtless more of a torture for you than me."

Potter stared at him, obviously surprised, and then bit his lip as though he wanted to say something more. Severus was annoyed at seeing such uncertainty on his own face.

"Okay... so, what's the plan?" said Potter eventually, pushing himself away from the nearby sofa and towards the desk. He looked down at Severus, then down at himself, and a faint smile twitched over his stolen mouth before he straightened himself up, scowled and said, in a lowered voice:

"Ten points from Gryffindor, Mr Potter. For having an annoying face."

Then he cracked up. Severus just glared.

"Was that an impression _?_ " he said. "You are aware that you've no need to try to copy my voice at present?"

Potter-in-Severus looked at him, made an obvious effort to stop laughing, and failed.

"You don't seem to have grasped the seriousness of the situation," growled Severus. 

"I _really_ do," said Potter, once again going to run his hand through his hair, and once again stopping himself with a badly-disguised look of disgust. "It's just... so absurd. I think I may be a bit hysterical."

"Kindly stop being hysterical in my body," said Severus, folding his arms. "It looks undignified."

Potter raised his eyebrows.

"Well, if we're being like that, I think you should know that all the scowling and arm folding looks considerably _less_ dignified in _my_ body," he said.

"That is hardly my fault," said Severus, attempting to look down Potter's stupidly petite nose. Potter was clearly trying to restrain another smile.

"So, what's the plan?" he repeated, reaching out to grab a bit of parchment from the desk.

"The plan, Potter, is research," he said. "That is a list of books that may be of use in the Hogwarts library—these are lists of other books and records that will not be available at Hogwarts. This one is a record of all that we know about the spell so far."

"As in, not much," said Potter, looking at the list of books in his hand with a glum expression. "Are you sure there isn't anything more... practical we can try?"

Severus rolled his eyes.

"Eventually, I'm sure, when we know more," he said.

"So what _do_ we know already?" said Potter, eyeing Severus's notes.

"Nothing encouraging," said Severus, rubbing a hand over his brow, and then again more curiously as he realised he could feel the faint puckering of Potter's scar. 

"We know that the exchange is impressive," he said. "Our bodies fool our wards and our own wands. For my part, at least, the physical experience is completely immersive. And unlike other transformations such as Polyjuice, the exchange was instantaneous, painless, and operated over a vast distance."

"Powerful stuff," said Potter, examining his borrowed hands with renewed interest. "Ancient, do you think?"

"It seems likely," said Severus. "In ancient times, magic was raw and elemental. No wands, very little control, only the will of the caster to direct it. Ancient magic is... capricious. Prehistoric spells, or at least the ones we've found, are more like imprints of the person who cast them than anything else. They have... strong personalities."

He cast a condemning glance at the little stone totem, which was currently holding down Severus's notes.

"Why _that_ thing, do you suppose?" said Potter, eyeing the totem's distinctive shape. Severus, who had stopped his writing several times this morning to push that question out of his head, pressed his lips firmly together.

"A mystery," he muttered. "Perhaps it's simply an object the caster found somewhere. Or perhaps it is a typical depiction of the human form for the era. It may seem strange now, but so would a typical stickman doodle, to another culture or time."

He glanced up at Potter, who looked back at him. To Severus's surprise, there was an edge of suspicion. Potter could clearly tell he'd chosen not to repeat another, more disturbing set of theories.

Severus had no idea how to maintain a poker face in this body. He scowled.

"All right then," said Potter. "I suppose there's nothing for it. I'll call for breakfast, and then we can venture out to the Hogwarts library. Although I think we should probably stop by McGonagall's office first and let her know the situation. And then owl Hermione. I bet she's already working on it—I assume you told her what happened?"

Severus raised his eyebrows. 

"Potter," he said, "Have you tried to tell anyone about this yet?"

"Not really, seeing as I don't speak French," he said. "Why?"

"Because the first thing I attempted to do was inform Weasley," he said. "And it did not work."

"Didn't work?" said Potter, looking alarmed. "How could it not _work?_ "

"Try for yourself," said Severus, holding out quill and parchment. "Owl Granger."

Potter bent over the desk. 

_Dear Hermione_ , he wrote, then frowned at the strange, messy handwriting.

"Urgh, it's like my brain wants to write one way and my hand another," he said.

"Indeed," agreed Severus. "I encountered a similar problem."

Potter was silent for a moment.

"You know," he said, and his voice was quiet and hoarse, "You could fall into a pretty deep hole, thinking about this too much. I mean... where do I keep my, you know, _me?_ "

"Indeed," repeated Severus dryly, who had spent some of his morning skirting that hole. "A question for the Department of Mysteries, I'm sure."

"Yeah," said Potter, sighing and turning back to the parchment. He touched his quill to the paper, but produced nothing more than a slowly spreading ink blot. He scowled, lifted his hand, wrote 'I', then his hand began to tremble uncontrollably, his face reddened and contorted, and then the quill in his hand gave way with a _snick._

"Hmm," said Potter, after a moment.

"I have tried to get around it," said Severus, "With little success."

"Hmm," repeated Potter, straightening up and wincing. "Then, to the books, I suppose... but first, breakfast."

Severus scowled, but he had to admit, Potter's stomach was growling.

*

Harry couldn't get enough of watching Snape walking around in his body. By this point in his rather strange life, he was familiar with seeing himself from an outside perspective, but there was something particularly intriguing about how _Snapeness_ leaked out from him now, in every gesture and mutter.

Snape hadn't spent much time sitting since he'd got up from the desk to eat breakfast, instead opting to walk about Harry's living room with a piece of toast and jam. Harry was used to the striding and pacing from Potions class, but Snape seemed to be thrumming with unspent energy.

Harry looked down at his own toast. It had been a surprising ordeal to eat, each mouthful forced through the tight, aching scar tissue of Snape's throat. Half a piece of toast in, he was already feeling full. 

He wasn't quitting yet though. Snape needed feeding up.

Suddenly realising what was making Snape so twitchy, he gave up and turned to the soothing tea, impulsively adding another sugar.

"You need to go for a run," said Harry. 

"What?" snapped Snape, startled out of his reverie.

"You're bouncing off the walls. It's what happens to me nowadays if I don't get my workout in. Habit left over from the Aurors."

"I am not _running_ ," said Snape dismissively.

"Well, on the outside at least, it'll be me running," said Harry. Snape scowled at him. It was funny, Snape was older than him, but the expressions he pulled in Harry's body made him look more like the Harry Potter of fifth or sixth year.

"It'll make you feel better?" he said, optimistically, then sighed. "And also, if you don't look after _my_ body, I might not feel like looking after _yours_."

Snape looked at him, his expression blooming rage.

"Get mad if you like, but that's just what a Slytherin would say," said Harry quickly. "Besides, I know for a fact that if you want to concentrate today, you're going to need to exercise."

Snape visibly deflated. Harry couldn't help but feel smug.

"Fine," he said. "Perhaps a walk."

"I'll get us some clothes," said Harry, grinning over his shoulder as he strode into his bedroom. He could do with changing out of Snape's stale, slept-in robe, anyway. At his chest of drawers he pulled out a pair of soft grey jogging bottoms and a workout shirt. He didn't have anything black for Snape—did he ever wear anything else? 

Harry decided to dress in his combat trousers, partly because they were closer to ordinary trousers and therefore more Snape-friendly, and partly because it would be easier to magically lengthen them than his elastic-cuffed jogging bottoms. He shuffled through the drawers until he found an appropriately worn green t-shirt.

Harry hesitated at the underwear drawer, contemplating the deplorable number of novelty print boxers. Harry abhorred clothes shopping and relied heavily upon Christmas gifts—that, and his two sets of respectable black teaching robes. He even had some of Dudley's cast-offs still hanging around, tucked in a drawer somewhere. Finding his best pair of pants to give to Snape, a slightly older pair for himself and two pairs of socks, he arranged the two outfits on the bed and commenced the act of stripping off, trying not to look down or think about it too much. He was, if he was honest with himself, a whirling mix of horrified and curious to see Snape in any kind of undress, and he got into his pants and trousers quickly before the latter could defeat the former. 

He looked down as he was buttoning the combats, however, appalled at how Harry's waistband was almost too loose on him. Almost unconsciously, he ran his thumb over the protruding hip bones, somehow startled by the ticklish shiver that ran through him.

Harry was definitely going to have to eat well in this body. And exercise, too; Harry missed his old energy.

Harry pulled the t-shirt on, then the socks, lengthened the trousers with his wand and then went to the mirror.

And _stared_. 

He knew what _he,_ in his usual body, looked like in this outfit—a bit skinny, scruffy, casual, not hideous but not eye-catching. Snape, however... with his tall, lean form curved into Harry's characteristic open slouch, the faded top hanging loose and a little short for him, and the fraying combats low on his hips... with the faded Dark Mark on display, and the curling edge of an old curse scar trailing down his other arm... and, of course, the long hair escaping from his ponytail, and a hint of morning stubble on his chin...

Snape looked like nothing so much as the lead singer of a rock band. Harry, who had expected Snape to look odd or even funny, but not like _this_ , began to laugh. 

It only added to the surreality of the image.

Getting a hold of himself, he looked again. Though 'metal fan' wouldn't have been his first choice of makeover style for Snape, it did make him look... younger. Harry had never given a thought to how having a tall frame and a strong, distinctive face like Snape's would transform something as simple as Harry's spare workout gear. Harry usually leaned into the anonymity of being shorter than average and wearing dull clothes, but he was surprised to feel a twinge of envy at the unavoidable impressiveness of Snape's stature. He was suddenly madly curious to try on some other looks. 

Harry rolled his shoulders, still looking in the mirror, and then froze. The movement had raised the t-shirt, baring a slash of pale, smooth stomach. Harry stared at it, at the V of Snape's sharply-defined hips, at the paleness of his skin and the dark trail of hair leading his eyes down to... 

Harry closed his eyes. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears, a hot flush crawling up his neck. He tried very hard not to think about it.

After a moment and a few deep breaths, Harry headed out to give Snape his clothes. Snape was eating his third piece of toast on Harry's sofa when he emerged, looking sulky and tapping his foot.

He looked up, and his eyes went wide.

"No," he said. "No, Potter, you are not going out dressed like that."

"Why not?" said Harry, grinning. "I quite like it. I feel... hardcore."

Snape looked over the outfit, expression genuinely horrified. 

"I could spell it black if it helps?" said Harry, privately thinking that this would only add to the current rock vibe.

Snape was still staring. His eyes hung on the Dark Mark for a moment.

"At least something with _sleeves_ ," he said, eventually, through gritted teeth. "It's the middle of winter."

"Alright," said Harry. "Here, here's your stuff."

He smiled at the sight of, well, _himself_ , staring at his grey jogging bottoms like they were particularly rancid flobberworms. He returned to the bedroom to find himself a long-sleeved top. 

Privately thinking that all Dudley's over-large skater top did was nudge the look from rock to grunge, Harry exited the bedroom again to find Snape dressed already, looking perfectly ordinary in Harry's joggers, save for the stiff posture and expression of distaste.

"I take comfort in the fact that all credit for this miserable ensemble will go to you," he said, plucking at the baggy t-shirt.

"Alright, Mr Haute Couture," said Harry, grinning. "Didn't know fashion was so important to you."

Snape glared. 

"Potter..." he said, and Harry read the colourful range of frustrated faces that followed as an attempt to think of something he could reasonably threaten Harry with, bearing in mind their current predicament. 

"Oh, let's just get this over with," said Harry. Snape did not respond, but he seemed to be defeated.

"Why not," he muttered, as they left Harry's rooms.

The castle was quiet this soon after dawn, especially on a Sunday, and Snape seemed visibly relieved when they reached the grounds without meeting anyone. By the time they got to the edge of the lake, Harry was bored of walking and decided it was time to try a run, hoping that Snape might follow suit.

It was unfamiliar in this body, and, he realised quickly, deeply unpleasant. His joints hurt at every footfall; his limbs seemed too long and awkward; he felt almost as though he was moving through treacle, and the ground seemed too far away. He persisted, though, giving up on a sprint and easing into a loping jog. He glanced back at Snape, awkwardly, in what he hoped was a challenging fashion.

Snape had his arms crossed; he scowled and did not move. Harry cast a glance ahead and then back to him; Snape sighed, dropped his arms and began to run. 

Harry watched his own green eyes widen with surprise when he realised the physical power available to him, and he caught up to Harry's awkward jog with ease. 

They ran in silence for a while, the icy air burning into Harry's lungs, watching the flush crawl up Snape-in-Harry's neck as Snape kept an easy pace with him, looking distant and focused. Harry tried to ignore his burning limbs, knowing that Snape was likely enjoying his endorphin rush but unable to feel the same past the pain and effort. After ten long, painful minutes, Harry gave up and dropped back into a walk. Snape glanced back at him, smirked, and carried on running. 

Harry suddenly became very worried that Snape might run off with Harry's body permanently. He'd seriously, _seriously_ taken his health and youth for granted. Most surprising, and at this moment painful, was the persistence of the discomfort at Snape's throat, a dull ache that was now a rather more intrusive throb.

Harry did some stretches and a few low-impact moves on the spot, unwilling to stop completely for fear of the cold setting in, and reflected once again on Snape's lack of self-care. It gave him a sharp pang of pain and frustration, but he cut it off before it could turn into anger at Snape. Harry was no master of self-care himself, after all. 

And, of course, Harry was in a unique position to understand Snape's poor habits. Harry knew intimately how a toxic home life did strange things to a person. He knew what it meant to have self-care come last on the list. Harry, with the Dursleys, was trained by cruelty, taught to discount his own health and happiness, taught that he was and always would be at the bottom of the list. Harry knew perfectly well now that this was not true or fair, but that sort of experience sank deep into the bones of a person. 

And, of course, not much in his life at Hogwarts had made him question the identity he'd assumed—that of a sacrificer, someone whose needs did not count. It took effort every day to shake it off, to think of the amazing, loving people in his life and remind himself that he counted just as much as every one of them. Through their eyes, he saw himself as worthy. His friends were what saved him, every day, from the bitter, angry life that Snape led. 

If he'd lost them, or chosen the wrong ones, perhaps Harry would have become him.

Harry stuck his hands in his pockets and cast a silent warming charm, thumb rubbing the unfamiliar yet tingling wood of Snape's wand. It was impressive, if a little troubling, how even their wands did not recognise the switch. 

The water before him was glittering in the early-morning light, a sparkling blanket of white-gold rimmed by mossy rock and sharp-scented pines. It was positively warm for a winter morning, but Harry's nose still stung as he breathed the fresh, crisp air. 

Self-care, at least physical care, seemed to be out of his hands for a moment. But if he was going to care for someone else's body for a while, Snape's at least was a worthy candidate.

He caught sight of Snape at the edge of the lake a little way ahead, on his way back to Harry and still running. Harry kicked his feet, scuffing his Auror boots as he did so, and watched him approach. His form looked good, at least... he'd be annoyed if Snape ran funny and twisted Harry's ankle. Snape-in-Harry was flushed, breathing hard but steady, and there seemed to be a faint smile on his face. Harry thought it must be a trick of the light. 

Snape stopped when he got a few feet from Harry, and they stared at each other for a moment. Harry wondered if Snape was also contemplating the surreality of the scene.

"Don't get too used to my body," said Harry eventually, crossing his arms. Snape, to his annoyance, smirked.

"Why, Potter, what are you planning to do about it?"

Harry scowled.

"Research, I'm told," he said. "Guess it's time to go back. If we're quick we'll manage to avoid the early risers."

Snape glanced at the castle and pulled a face.

"Very well," he said. "After you."

*

Despite Potter's promises, they did not make it back to his rooms undetected; three girls in Muggle coats and Ravenclaw scarves were on their way down the steps as they entered.

"Good morning, Professor Potter!" called one of them, tossing her hair and beaming. The other two caught her arm; one giggled, the other waved.

"Be nice!" said Potter sharply in his ear, elbowing him for good measure. Severus rolled his eyes.

"Good morning," he said, nodding at the girls. It took some effort to remember that this was not his cue to sweep off to the dungeons.

"Come on," murmured Potter, catching his elbow, "It must be later than I realised. If we get up these stairs I know a shortcut that'll be quiet."

Potter began to walk up the steps towards the girls, and Severus followed him, still completely unnerved by the sight of himself in Potter's strange Muggle attire.

"Good morning," said Potter as they passed the girls, apparently unconcerned with getting in character. The girls stared at him, bemused, and the one who had spoken said a shy, "Hello."

Potter didn't linger to make introductions; Severus made to follow him, but the girl who'd spoken tugged at his sleeve. He stared down at the liberty; the girl dropped her hand, embarrassed.

"Who's _he,_ Sir?" she said quietly, alight with curiosity. Severus raised his eyebrows, surprised. It hadn't occurred to him that there would be students in Hogwarts who would not immediately recognise him. His fame clearly did not match Potter's... although in those clothes his body hardly looked like the black-clad, forbidding man that unwillingly featured in the _Daily Prophet_.

"No one of consequence," he said. Potter looked back, catching the comment, and seemed to be torn between amusement and annoyance.

The Ravenclaw girls looked doubtful.

"Come on, _Mr Potter_ ," said Potter, biting his lip to cover a smile. "No loitering in the corridors. We have important business to attend to."

Severus, because it fit his current character and because he could, rolled his eyes.

"See you later, Sir!" said the girls, and scurried down the rest of the stairs, giggling all the way.

"Right," said Potter quietly, as they reached the first floor. "There, behind that tapestry, is a staircase all the way up to the fifth floor, then we can take the corridor behind Charms and up the stairs."

"Very well," said Severus. "Lead the way."

Severus was aching somewhat from the run, and taking a spiral staircase up four floors was a considerable effort, but Potter was having a much harder time of it. It was no surprise, as there were not exactly an awful lot of staircases in a caravan, and Severus's primary physical activities these days were strolls through the woods and broom trips to the village.

It was nicer than he'd expected, being in an athletic body. He'd have to make a little more effort when they returned to normal.

"I think that run's done your body more harm than good," said Potter when they reached the top of the final staircase. He was rubbing at Severus's knees.

"I could have told you that, Potter. I've had poor joints for a long time," said Severus. Cruciatus had torn his ligaments more times than magic could properly heal.

"We'll have to think of something easier on them," said Potter. "Swimming?"

"Potter, I will not be—" Severus didn't know why he was resisting, as he'd literally just thought about making more effort.

"Or flying," continued Potter, ignoring him. "I brought your broom. Although you don't seem to need one, if I recall correctly..."

Severus smirked.

"A parlour trick, not a practical method of transportation," he said. Then he sighed. "Flying is acceptable."

Potter seemed surprised, as though he had not expected acquiescence. But Severus did not have the energy to fight him.

Potter tried to open the door to his rooms, glared at the handle when it did not budge, and then stepped back to let Severus do it with an expression of annoyance. Severus opened it, and then stepped back to allow Potter to enter first.

"I need a shower," said Potter, striding past and slumping down on the armchair, and then looked horrified as he realised the implications of this.

"So do I," said Severus darkly. "The universe is a cruel place."

Potter looked faintly offended, which was absurd.

"I'll go first," said Severus, as though to dispel the unintended insult, which was even more absurd.

"Okay," said Potter. "Everything's where you'd expect it to be, towels are on the shelf, help yourself to the soap and whatever."

"You mean _my_ soap?" said Snape, smirking.

"Don't get comfortable," said Potter, looking as though he were trying not to smile. He'd seen that expression a few times now; it was not one in his repertoire, being more inclined to a controlled smirk than anything else, but there was something he liked about it, something vaguely flattering that it did to his face. When he got his body back, he might try it.

Feeling suddenly self-conscious, Severus stalked into the bathroom. He was annoyed that it just didn't have the same impact in Potter's body.

Potter's bathroom was about the same as the bathroom in his old rooms, although the fittings were brass rather than silver, and the big, fluffy towels stacked on the tall shelf by the bath had an obnoxiously Gryffindor red and gold trim. He'd not paid much attention this morning, but the bath was also nicer than his had been, a vast claw-footed thing with a brass shower head above it and four foam taps. He was struck by the temptation to have a bath rather than a shower, but Potter might wonder why he was taking so long... Merlin knew what he might think... 

Cursing himself for letting his mind wander into such territory immediately before he was expected to—to shower, he perched on the closed lid of the toilet and began to remove Potter's trainers. Exposing his feet to the cool air was a welcome sensation. Sighing, he pulled his t-shirt over his head and then turned on the shower, steadfastly ignoring the mirror and instead looking at Potter's bottles of soap and shampoo, stacked messily in the brass shower basket on the side of the bath. They all looked smelly and dreadful.

He removed the rest of his clothes in a brisk, matter-of-fact fashion, not looking down, and then stepped under the scalding spray. If he closed his eyes, there was nothing so wildly different about the experience of hot water against this skin, nothing especially alien about the body he scrubbed at briskly with a sliver of soap. And even the feel of tensed abdominal muscles under his palm was not so overwhelming, not so different from casually touching his own skinny body.

There were some places Severus could not face washing; the sluice of soapy water running over him would have to do.

The warmth of the shower eased the ache in his muscles from the running, but Severus lingered only as long as he had to. Shutting off the water and slinging a towel around his waist, he was just beginning to feel triumph, to feel proud of not losing his mind completely, when the steam cleared a little and he caught sight of Potter's body in the mirror.

Potter was glistening, water running from his already-curling hair in rivulets down his neck, sparkling over the curve of his shoulders. His chest was smooth and golden, taut with the kind of muscles you could never achieve with a gym or a glamour, muscles that spoke of woodland runs and swimming in the lake and fast flying. There was a fine line of dark hair trailing from his bellybutton, down, _down_ until it disappeared under the crisp white line of the towel.

Severus gasped, and Potter's expression was red-mouthed, dark arousal. But that expression was _his_ , and Severus didn't think he could bear the hot, tight curl of humiliation in his stomach, humiliation and something else he would not name.

 _Damn you, Potter,_ he thought. 

He'd not thought to bring clothes into the bathroom; with only a moment's hesitation, he stalked out into the front room. Potter had obviously noticed the oversight and brought out a fresh set of clothes, in the form of some dreadful jeans and a worn blue t-shirt. Potter's clothes were old and inexplicable, and why did Potter dress so badly?

Potter walked into the bathroom without looking at him.

*

Harry had showered in his rooms a million times, so it was easy to turn on the shower and strip off, easy to avoid noticing that the skin he revealed was pale and strange, the limbs longer.

Harry stepped into the bath and stuck his head under the hot spray, face tilted and eyes closed. The water was blissful pressure over his head, the hot water sliding down his aching back. He took a deep breath, letting his shoulders drop, releasing out an involuntary moan. 

Then went stiff again as the moan reached his ears. There was something so... forbidden about the sound of it, the sound of _Snape_ making a noise of pleasure. It sent adrenaline shooting to the ends of his toes, sent a hot flush down his already heated skin, sent a hot feeling down to...

 _Nowhere_ , thought Harry stubbornly. No feelings anywhere. And he was not going to look down to check. 

He didn't know what was _wrong_ with him.

He stared out at the tiles, seeing crisp lines of pottery and pitted grout instead of the noisy blur he was used to. Showering was a pleasant sensory activity. His body reacted the same way any body would. It had nothing to do with him—with either of them.

Smiling mirthlessly, Harry reached out for the shampoo.

Washing Snape's hair took the edge off his troubled, tense thoughts. Snape's hair was longer than it ever had been before, obviously uncut for some time, and it took a little effort to ease out the knots at the back. It felt good, scalp a little sensitive. The feel of hair through his fingers was welcome, comforting. It might even need conditioner, Harry realised, if he hoped to keep it untangled throughout the day.

Harry did not linger over the soap. He shaved with a charm rather than his usual razor, then got dry and dressed as rapidly as he could. He kept his eyes closed as much as he could manage, although not out of politeness or embarrassment; more because he was afraid of his thoughts. Of the way something thrilled in him at every forbidden glimpse of skin. At the sensitive touch of an unfamiliar body. 

Harry put Snape's hair up, but he couldn't stop touching it, pushing stray strands out of his face. It was so soft now, impossibly soft, and it escaped the space behind Snape's ear far too easily.

The two of them did not speak as they left Harry's rooms and set off towards the library. 

Lingering at the Library door, Harry noticed that Snape seemed reluctant to enter. Harry was confident only a smattering of Ravenclaw seventh years would be there on a Sunday morning in December, and Snape would know that, too. Who was he afraid of?

"You're actually scared of Pince," said Harry, staring at Snape, who was eyeing the door suspiciously. "You _are_ , aren't you? I mean, yeah she's scary but... oh. Oh my God. You and she don't have _history_ , do you?"

Snape stared at him, mouth open comically wide.

"You realise you have to tell me the truth," said Harry quickly, "So I don't put my foot in it."

"Potter," said Snape eventually. "You're absolutely disgusting."

"Hey," said Harry, lip twitching, "She's a powerful woman. I wouldn't judge."

But Snape's expression of horror was convincing enough.

"Come on, Potter," he said. "Let's get this over with." A small pause. "And I am not _scared of Madam Pince._ That would be absurd."

For such a sneaky, well-guarded Slytherin, Snape could be dreadfully transparent sometimes. Harry couldn't help but smile.

*

Sequestered back in the relative safety of Potter's rooms, surrounded by an impressive haul of Hogwarts reference books, Severus reflected that he should really feel on firmer ground.

Severus had never had so much trouble studying in his life.

Mostly, it was because of Potter. Potter sat like a child, legs crossed in his armchair or up on the coffee table, or with his knees pulled up to his chin. He was constantly shuffling and looking around and fiddling with things, touching the long hair that fell about his stolen face or pushing his forefinger up the bridge of his nose and then staring at it, surprised. It was... distracting.

Partly, it was _being_ Potter. Potter's body seemed to hum with energy, leaving him feeling restless and vaguely frustrated. Severus had never considered before that some of Potter's inattention in lessons might be built into his very flesh.

Partly, it was the persistent intrusion of the memory of Potter's body in the bathroom mirror.

It was so utterly unfair. Severus's life was a cosmic joke. He couldn't _bear_ to admire Potter's body. He had to hate it, like every other part of him. If this particular part of Potter snuck through his defences...

Severus cradled _Tales of Unusual Magicks_ , and refused to let himself think about it.

*

Harry was fairly sure Snape was watching him.

He was sure because he'd only been pretending to read for the past hour, his eyes sliding inexorably back to the man who was wearing his face. How was he supposed to concentrate, with someone using his body in the way Snape did?

Snape was not at all relaxed. He seemed to be trying to sit neatly, elegantly even, but Harry's body clearly did not want to cooperate. His foot was tapping, and the hand not holding his book was fiddling unconsciously with the fraying edge of the sofa. Harry knew what that felt like—knew what it was like to feel the rough, ragged strands under his fingertips, the motion calming when he was trying to think.

Once, Harry even saw Snape raise a hand to run through his hair like Harry did, though he caught himself before completing the motion, staring at the limb with an expression of betrayed horror.

Harry had no such desire to resist the impulse, with Snape's hair now soft and clean. In fact, he was having a hard time _not_ touching it. It felt amazing through his fingers, long and soft and silky, and stroking it made his scalp prickle pleasantly. 

Harry had even caught himself twiddling it a bit.

Harry sighed, trying to focus on his book. It was spectacularly unhelpful. The dry prose, and Snape's palpable tension, were beginning to give him a headache already.

What would it take, wondered Harry, to get Severus Snape to relax?

A few answers rose in his mind, unbidden. He shied away from the thoughts.

God, he was actually losing his mind.

Harry and Snape scanned their books for body swap stories for long hours, exchanging no words. Snape occasionally jotted a note, but other than that he barely acknowledged the world around him. They ate sandwiches for lunch, Snape not bothering to put down his book while he did so, and Harry was nearly asleep in his text on nineteenth-century Wizarding archaeology by the time the evening settled in. 

There was extensive discussion of Oliver McNeill's illustrious career in the book, and a few paragraphs on the Hogsmeade dig. A mention of the figurine that was little more than a brief reproduction of the notecard, and then it was skipping straight into a dig in Egypt, where the playboy McNeill announced his engagement to his then-assistant Clarissa. It was a shock, the book said, because Clarissa had publicly rebuffed him several times over McNeill's tendency to leave her name off the credits for discoveries they had made together. McNeill had obviously unbent, it seemed, because they had joint credits aplenty over the next several decades. Indeed, the McNeills travelled the world together for a whole century, discovering an array of dazzling and extremely valuable artefacts that made the little figurine look somewhat unremarkable. They were currently missing presumed dead in the depths of Amazon rainforest, at the grand age of one hundred and thirty.

Harry set the book down. Interesting as it was, he was sick of reading and vaguely hungry. He wondered if he could persuade Kreacher to bring them something hot. He knew the house-elves generally disapproved of teachers dodging dinner in the Great Hall, and would only bring proper food in special circumstances. But maybe just a piece of treacle tart...

Harry picked up another book, but it was no good. His thoughts slid, as they had all evening, back to Snape, and he fell into the kind of painful reverie Harry had hoped was behind him. Thoughts of his mother, then inevitably his father, an endless and familiar wondering about who they were, and who they might have been. And then Sirius, and Remus, and Tonks—and that hollow space in his chest which led him to Fred. He withdrew from those thoughts, still too painful even after five years—instead, he wondered how Teddy was doing. He thought about how he'd come to know Andromeda, how much she looked like a Black but how different she was from her sisters. He wondered about her recent reconnection to Narcissa, then that led him to think about what Draco Malfoy was doing these days... which seemed to lead neatly back to Snape. He wondered if they'd been in touch. He wondered what the Malfoys had made of Snape's duplicity.

Harry glanced over at Snape, who had gone to sit at the desk, scribbling notes with his right hand as he flipped through books with his left. He was, apparently, completely absent from the world around him. Harry found the image strangely endearing, easy as it was to imagine a young Snape instead of Harry's own body sat in that desk.

"Snape," said Harry, when the light was low and Snape was so close to the paper that even Harry's smaller nose was about to be squished, "I think your eyesight charm's wearing off."

Snape squinted up at him, startled. Harry levitated the abandoned glasses over to him. Snape put them on, looked faintly surprised at how much difference they made, scowled at Harry, and then returned to his book. Harry sighed and looked at his own book briefly, before his eyes slid inexorably back to the desk.

Harry's eyes caught the pile of student essays Snape had dumped on the floor. God, it was Sunday, the day he usually spent catching up on marking. Thank Merlin he'd decided to do it on Friday night—he'd been hoping Ron and Hermione might join him for a drink or two after the museum on Saturday evening, and he did _not_ enjoy marking with a hangover.

He contemplated Snape, and wondered if it were a good time to broach the subject of his classes.

*

"You do realise you're going to have to take my classes tomorrow," said Potter, piercing through Severus's concentration like a knife.

"I most certainly do not," he said looking up at him in genuine horror. For some reason, Potter seemed to find that funny. 

"Oh, come on," said Potter, "I think I heard somewhere that you were quite keen to teach Defense..."

"Potter, I hate teaching. Defence Against the Dark Arts or otherwise."

"Do you?" said Potter, seeming surprised, but he was not distracted for long. "Anyway, that's not the point, the point is we can't tell anyone what's wrong and I would rather like to keep this job, so..."

"Potter, I am _not_ teaching your classes. I am _not_ pretending to be you. Indeed, Potter, even if I wanted to, I am constitutionally incapable. You will have to come up with an excuse, I'm sure you can fake an illness perfectly well."

Severus realised he'd got things muddled before Potter had even opened his mouth to respond.

"No, y _ou_ can think of an excuse," said Potter. "And _you_ can tell it to McGonagall at eight o'clock in the evening on a Sunday."

Severus scoffed. He would do just that, of course he would, he was a supremely good liar, and not afraid of Minerva McGonagall at all.

"But honestly," continued Potter, folding his arms, "I thought you might be interested in pretending to be me. Seeing how the _famous Harry Potter_ lives."

Severus sneered at him. 

"And get showered in your love notes? I think not."

"Might do you good to have students who actually like you."

"I am quite content to never interact with a student again," said Snape.

"Right," said Potter contemptuously, looking away, and something in Severus's stomach clenched. 

But Potter did not give up easily. After a moment of glaring at the wall, he looked back at Severus.

"You know," he said casually, that repressed-smile expression creeping back, "I was thinking of nipping into Hogsmeade tomorrow. I've got this strange craving to get a tattoo... maybe 'Gryffindor Rules'? Somewhere.... nice and visible."

He contemplated the backs of Severus's pale hands, then gave him a grin. Severus wished he wouldn't; he winced at the state of his teeth.

 _Bloody Gryffindors_ , he thought. The only difference between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin, as far as he was concerned, was that Gryffindors liked to manipulate you with a smile.

"You've got some nerve, Potter," he said, hoping his tone was threat enough.

"So I've heard," said Potter, still grinning.

Severus considered him carefully. Potter's threat was definitely an idle one; when it came to who could inflict the most damage on the other's life, Potter would lose. He had more _to_ lose.

"You do realise," he said eventually, deciding to match Potter's casual tone, "That if I am out teaching, then you will be left with the _research._ "

Potter sighed.

"Yes," he said, looking glumly at the books. "Still, can't be helped."

"And you cannot make me be _nice_ , Potter."

"I'll settle for 'not actively abusing my students'," said Potter dryly.

Severus was just about to give in, just about to grind out a _fine_ and be done with it, when they were interrupted by a sharp rap on Potter's door. He started, but it was okay because Potter jumped too.

"I bet it's McGonagall," said Potter with a shifty look at the door, and Severus was painfully reminded of his younger self, always waiting to be caught doing something he shouldn't be. "She'll have noticed I've not been in the Great Hall all day. You better get it."

Severus felt a lead weight in his stomach. He had not seen Minerva McGonagall since the trial. It had been... a difficult encounter. He was suddenly grateful to be hidden behind the mask of Potter's body. 

He stood up, glancing down at the notes and wondering if he could leave them out... perhaps Minerva would see them—

He had an irresistible compulsion to cast a spell over the notes and books and was extremely annoyed when his wand hand cast a Disillusionment charm without consultation. He wondered idly if the curse had caught his intent. Perhaps if he had forgotten about the notes, he would not have hidden them. As theories went, it was a spectacularly unhelpful one.

He crossed to the door and opened it a little, trying not to scowl in an un-Potter-like manner.

"Ah, Harry," said Minerva, "Glad to see you're well. I couldn't help but notice you weren't around for Sunday tea and I thought I'd come and check on you."

"Is that unusual?" said Severus, trying to sound casual.

"Well... not completely," said Minerva, looking surprised to be challenged and a little shifty. "But I overheard a student rumour about you this afternoon and I found myself intrigued. May I come in?"

"Of course," he said, trying to smile, and stepped back, casting a glance back at Potter. Potter had straightened up, thankfully, a book open on his lap. He had not, to Severus's annoyance, taken his hair out of the ponytail.

" _Severus?_ " said McGonagall, sounding thunderstruck, and Severus was almost amused at her expression. Whatever she was expecting, this clearly wasn't it.

"Hello, Headmistress," said Potter, and _curse_ him, that trying-not-to-smile face was back.

"None of that, Severus, we've been through this, one does not go through the mill like we have and insist upon titles," she said. "Well, I suppose that explains Harry Potter's mysterious tall dark stranger." A flick of her sharp eyes in his direction. "And why, exactly, am I hearing about your arrival from the students?"

Severus knew that if Potter stood up he would be taller than Minerva, but Potter looked very small as she advanced upon the sofa. Severus could not blame him. He shut the door quietly, attempting to avoid diverting Minerva's attention back to him.

"I—" said Potter, and Severus suddenly remembered what a terrible liar the boy was. "I had a matter to discuss with Potter. It was somewhat urgent."

"Oh?" said Minerva, raising her eyebrows. "And what on earth could be so urgent?"

"I'm afraid we can't tell you," said Severus quickly, before Potter could bluster and make him look a fool. "But we've embarked upon a... project. One of some importance and unavoidable secrecy."

Minerva narrowed her eyes.

"Are... you quite well, Mr Potter?" she said quietly, surprising him.

"Yes," he said firmly. "Absolutely fine. Nothing to worry about."

"Honestly, Minerva, if we could have, we would have told you at once," interjected Potter, with a little more earnestness than Severus would have liked. "Words cannot express how much I'd like to enlist your help."

To Severus's annoyance, this seemed to thaw the woman. 

"You're well, as well?" she asked gently. 

"Acceptable," said Potter, lip quirking. 

"Well," said Minerva, smoothing down the tartan front panel of her festive robes. "That is good. But secret project or not, that is no excuse! You've been completely off the map for three years, not a word, not a single reply to my owls—"

Potter had the cheek to shoot an outraged look at Severus, who shrugged uneasily.

"I... was rather remote," said Potter weakly, "They must have gone astray."

Severus put one hand over his eyes. God, this was painful.

"Oh, _really_ ," said Minerva, and Severus wondered idly if she'd actually go for her wand. Aside from their strained conversation in a Ministry visiting room, the last time he'd seen her he'd been attempting to fend off a barrage of her spells, without firing anything dangerous back.

"Yes," said Potter weakly, while Severus willed him to keep his mouth shut for once. Then he looked up at her and said: "Minerva, I'm _sorry_. I'm sorrier than I can say. I've been hiding. I have had good reason to want to, but that isn't fair to you. I _promise_ ," a sharp glance in Severus's direction, "That I will write to you from now on. Like a decent human being."

Severus stared at Potter, astonished and furious. How _dare_ he? How _dare_ he make promises with his mouth, presume to know his feelings and motivations? Of all the arrogant, manipulative, vindictive, smug, self-righteous—

"Oh, _Severus,_ " said Minerva, and her tone punched straight through all the anger burning in his chest. "Bless you, you foolish man. I know you're convinced I have a bone to pick with you, and of course I've had several hundred, but all I've been trying to tell you is that I _understand,_ that I am furious and hurt and disgusted with you and also so _proud_ , and so _glad_ that you survived that blasted snake, and for all those ugly words and deeds that year at Hogwarts, I _forgive_ you, you hopeless wretch of a man."

Potter looked up at her, and Severus silently cursed him every way he knew how; the soft, affectionate expression on his face made it look younger, _better,_ and although Severus was perfectly aware that he was not a good person, or even good at being a person, it was galling that Potter should be so much _better_ at it.

"Perhaps," said Potter quietly, "I don't believe I deserve it."

And his eyes flicked to Severus. _Curse him, curse him to hell._ How well he knew Severus's weakness, how easily Potter could lay him bare. He'd always told himself it was Lily's eyes that did it; now he had no such excuse.

Minerva followed his eyeline with interest. When she met Severus's eyes, Severus was horrified to see they were sparkling.

Potter quickly made a gesture behind her back. A drinking gesture with his hand, one finger sticking out, and then in case Severus was an idiot, a T-shape with both hands.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" said Severus weakly. Minerva smiled.

"Thank you, Harry, that would be lovely," she said, taking a calming breath. She took a graceful seat on the armchair, and Severus crossed to the bell-pull to avoid having to sit next to Potter. For the second time since he'd arrived in this godforsaken form, he contemplated the possibility of strangling Potter to death, his own body be damned.

The rest of the conversation was excruciating. Minerva scolded him for not coming to tell her Severus was visiting, not least because it was against school policy for teachers to have guests who had not been pre-approved. Severus tried to give the sort of earnest apology that apparently Potter just loved to dole out willy-nilly. Minerva seemed satisfied, and proceeded to grill Potter about Severus's whereabouts over the last few years. Potter gave vague, guarded answers that were in-character, at least. Minerva offered a few insights into the goings-on at Hogwarts since his departure, which he listened to with curiosity. And all the while she looked between the two of them, sat awkwardly on the sofa together and avoiding each other's eyes, but did not ask any questions.

"Well," she said eventually, "Best be going, I've a school to run. You're welcome to stay at Hogwarts for as long as is necessary, Severus, and don't you dare think about leaving without coming up to my office to say goodbye. I hope I will see you both at breakfast, or dinner at the very least, and I will make sure that there's an extra space at the head table. Please do come to me, both of you, if you find yourself in need of my help."

"Thank you, Minerva," said Severus, because Potter would.

"For everything," added Potter, although he said it smoothly, without his characteristic raw earnestness this time. Severus supposed that was what passed for making an effort, with Potter.

Severus showed her out; Minerva glanced over his shoulder significantly as he did so, and then gave him a piercing look of enquiry. He shrugged. If he could have mustered a smile, he would have, but he was too exhausted. 

"Oh, Minerva," said Potter suddenly, and Severus turned to glare. "Professor Potter here has consented to give me, with your permission, the, ah, honour of allowing me to observe a few of his lessons."

"Really?" said Minerva, in such a tone of disbelief that Severus would have laughed if he were not currently channelling every inch of his being into glowering at Potter. "Is that so, Mr Potter?"

Severus locked eyes with Potter for a long moment. Potter was doing that repressed smile again, and he'd mastered the eyebrow raise.

"Ah yes, of course," he said eventually, through gritted teeth. 

Minerva looked instantly suspicious.

"Is this something to do with this secret project?"

"Unfortunately," agreed Severus, in a low tone.

"Honestly, boys, if I find out that there is anything dangerous or untoward going on—or if I have even the slightest suspicion of _dubious motives—_ " she looked straight at Potter-in-Snape at this, who looked irrationally offended.

"Honestly, Professor McGonagall, there's nothing to worry about, really, you can trust us," said Severus, in such a convincing show of Potterish earnestness that the real Potter looked startled and Minerva went soft.

"Very well," she said. "I will see you both soon." 

Severus waited until she was out of earshot, and then shut the door with a snap. Then, after a moment's pause, he turned on Potter. He may not have the limbs or the robes to whirl any more, but Potter's body could move with measured, deliberate power, and Severus would always have timing.

"Don't," said Potter tiredly, which was not quite the cower he'd been hoping for. "Not now."

Severus took a step forward.

"You had no right," he said quietly. Potter took in his stance, his glare, the softness of his voice.

"I didn't know I could look that scary," he said, but it was mild, and not at all afraid. "Honestly, Snape, do we have to do this now? I could really do with a cup of cocoa and bed."

"You had. No. _Right_ ," he said, a little louder. Blood was roaring in his ears, and he could think of no better way to get this hot, sick feeling out of his chest than to pour it all onto this hated boy—

"The thing is," said Potter calmly, "Your way doesn't work. It gets you exactly the _opposite_ of what you want. And even if it _did_ work, I will not pretend to be like that. I am _not_ upsetting people I care about just to preserve your precious pride. So I suggest you find a way to get over yourself."

Severus was quite sure he was going to pop another blood vessel.

"Besides," said Potter, eyeing him in a calculating fashion. "There's at least a small chance we're stuck this way, and if I have to be you for the rest of my life I do not want to burn any bridges."

Something about the matter-of-fact, completely Slytherin nature of this line of thought threw cold water over Severus's rage.

" _Fine_ ," he said, and the fact that Potter looked astonished was a comfort, at least. 

Severus was sick of this. The sooner he was back in his own body, the better.

*

Harry made himself move slowly to the bell-pull, to order hot chocolate in a calm, measured tone, the one he used to cope with a confrontational student. Harry didn't quite know when he became so good at it. To be able to talk down _Snape..._

It was easy, with the students. No matter what they threw at him, _they_ were the vulnerable ones, _they_ were the ones under his care. He _had_ to be the adult, no matter what emotions they provoked. He didn't know when he'd gained this upper hand on Snape, however.

Or perhaps he did. Inside Snape's memories, he'd seen for sure what he'd already come to suspect was inside Snape; a child, a wounded, stunted one, with childish ideas of what love meant and childish ways of dealing with his feelings. And he'd seen why, he knew exactly why... he had unwillingly witnessed Tobias Snape's violent, twisted way to love. And he'd seen Eileen Prince, and her apparent determination to try to love her husband. Even at the expense of her happiness, her safety and her son.

Still, thought Harry, it wasn't a good enough excuse. Harry himself had been unloved and abused, and he had also been obliged to get over himself. For his own sake, but more importantly for the people he loved.

It was about time someone expected it of Snape.

"Good night," said Harry calmly, picking up one of the two cups of hot chocolate, a piece of parchment and a quill, and trying not to look at the man who was sat on his sofa, staring out like a broken doll. 

He retreated to his bedroom. He had some notes to make for tomorrow.

**Part Three**

Severus was still raw and unhappy when the dawn light woke him. The transfigured bed was beginning to make him ache. It was absolutely the last thing he wanted to do today, to go to some wretched classroom with some awful pubescent brats and try to be Potter. It was intolerable.

He stayed in bed for as long as it took for Potter to come out of his rooms, dressed in the combats and top from yesterday. He threw the blasted jogging bottoms at Snape's head.

"Here," he said. "Come on, we're going to fly for half an hour, come back for a shower and then get breakfast in the Great Hall. We can chat about today's plan of attack on the way."

"Or we could remain here and have sandwiches for breakfast," muttered Severus, covering himself with the blanket. Potter actually laughed, and the sound was deep and rich and... unfamiliar. 

Did Severus genuinely not know the sound of his own laugh?

"If we don't go the students will talk," said Potter.

"The students will talk anyway when they see _you_."

"We'll be in trouble with Minerva, and I will not hesitate to blame you for it. Come on, get up." 

Potter strolled out. Scowling and blinking against the dawn light, Severus surrendered. He pulled the joggers under the warmth of the duvet and pulled them on, ignoring the niggling beginnings of a headache. Merlin, he'd not been quite as compliant for anyone since Dumbledore...

 _Dumbledore's man,_ Potter had called him at the trials. Did that make him Potter's man, now?

Severus needed to wake up properly. His brain was getting away from him. 

Severus hadn't entirely shaken off his morning fog by the time they arrived at the Quidditch pitch, even at the icy morning chill. But he did feel awake at the sight of himself, leaping onto a broom, soaring up into the sky in a wild spiral.

He looked down at his own broom. Despite himself, despite his lingering hatred for Quidditch players and his scorn for non-academic pursuits, he _liked_ flying. There was a reason he'd bothered to learn to do it without a broom. 

Sighing, he summoned the broom into his hand and followed Potter into the sky.

*

Harry couldn't quite believe how good it was, to fly with Snape. Laughing, and delighted by the sound of it, he raced the man around the perimeter of the Quidditch pitch and then dropped into familiar training drills. Balance practices, sharp turning manoeuvres, dive training, and various repetitive moves designed to practice recovery if you found yourself dangling - by the legs, by the arms, upside down. Snape's core strength was acceptable, his legs strong, but Harry could not pull himself up from an arm hang; Harry made a note to work on that when he could. Snape watched him for a while, looking vaguely disgusted at the whole affair, but eventually joined in with a few of the drills, looking irrationally smug when he realised he was much better at it than Harry was at the moment.

Every now and then, he saw Snape notice that he was enjoying himself. The thought, apparently, made him scowl. Harry wondered what it must be like, to be so used to being miserable that you stopped wanting to experience joy. Or were, perhaps, afraid of it.

Harry realised after another lap of the pitch that he _did_ understand it. Because the Dursleys had deliberately taken everything good from him. He used to wake up in the night, that first year at Hogwarts, afraid that he was back in his cupboard. He used to spend the summers telling himself that his friends didn't care about him, telling himself that everything good was gone. Because he'd learned that his joy was fleeting, that his happiness brought punishment in its wake, that he could not want anything too much or it would be snatched away. 

Just another thing that his friends had helped him heal from.

He wondered if Snape had it in him to heal as well.

*

Severus would have liked to forgo the shower in favour of a quick cleansing charm, but Potter wouldn't let him.

"Only fair," said the man. "We should both have to deal with the embarrassment."

It was not simple embarrassment that plagued him, but Severus could hardly explain that to Potter.

Entering The Great Hall as Professor Potter was much less traumatic than entering it as Severus Snape would have been, but it was still unpleasant. For the most part, the students didn't give him a second glance, save a few first years who were not yet over the novelty of their celebrity teacher. But as they made their way through the room, the crowd began to notice the stranger—or for the older students, the spectre from their young nightmares. The conversation dropped; students from older years began to whisper to the young ones.

Potter looked back at him, alarmed. It obviously had not occurred to him that Severus Snape back at Hogwarts might cause a stir. 

Potter had not been at Hogwarts that last year. He didn't know. The fear that hung in the air, Snape's efforts to look firm, to impose order, to appear in control, all the while trying to keep the children from being tortured by the Carrows or worse, _disappeared_. The Gryffindors, curse them, making the whole job completely impossible, refusing to bow to his authority even for the sake of their safety. Dumbledore's Army, refusing to acknowledge that they were _children,_ childrenwho should keep their bloody heads down and wait for the whole thing to be settled. One way or another. The year had been a slow and inevitable descent from an admittedly crippled place of education into the scene of a bizarre guerilla war, and Severus had almost been glad to see the end of it in the jaws of that wretched snake.

McGonagall noticed them enter, of course; she indicated the two empty seats at her right. This was a clear statement on her part that the students could rest easy, that Severus Snape sat in this hall as a friend. Severus wouldn't like to admit how much it meant to him.

"We should have prepped for this bit too," said Potter, stepping a little closer to Severus, jaw tense. "I don't know what you and McGonagall talk about."

"Don't worry, Potter," muttered Snape. "We've barely spoken in five years. Before that, mostly yelling. Occasionally throwing things. It was not pleasant, and it's a mercy she had the good sense to keep it in my private offices. I wondered if she knew, sometimes—" Severus cut himself off from this unintentional wander into over-sharing. "Besides, if she thinks you're behaving out of character then that's all the better. Perhaps she'll figure it out."

"I feel like the spell is not going to like that."

"It's not _that_ powerful," said Snape scornfully. "I am confident it works primarily on intent. It cannot possibly know if we _accidentally_ say something out of character."

"That's... remarkably unhelpful," said Potter dryly.

By the time they reached the head table, the hall was very quiet. Potter, ever the Gryffindor, walked up to the seat beside McGonagall with a high head, and when she smiled at him and held out her hand, he shook it. 

"Severus," she said, louder than was strictly necessary. "How nice to see you. I hope you found your accommodations comfortable?"

"Very," said Potter, with a slight smile that looked like it wanted to be a wider one. "Thank you for having me, Minerva." 

And then, with a slight smirk at Severus, Potter bowed and made a show out of pulling out Headmistress McGonagall's chair.

The room broke out into loud whispers. Severus observed that Minerva clearly had not told the staff he would be here either, as they all looked gobsmacked. Doubtless, Minerva wanted to torture Severus with a scene. Which was fair play, he supposed. 

It was suddenly rather peaceful to be Potter today.

"Well don't you look chipper today, Severus," said Minerva quietly, but approvingly, as Potter settled in next to her.

"Must be the fresh Scottish air," said Potter, trying not to smile too much.

"Good morning, Professor Potter," said Minerva, with a small, yet warm smile at him. Severus remembered himself and sat down on Potter's other side. Flitwick turned to him immediately, eyebrows raised.

"Morning, Harry," he said. "And what mischief are you up to today?"

"No mischief," said Severus. "I have invited Snape to stay at Hogwarts for a little while, while we work on a small project together."

Flitwick raised his bushy grey brows and grinned.

"Well, you do know how to cause a stir, Mr Potter, don't you just," he said. "I'm surprised you managed to persuade Severus to show his face at the high table, though, considering."

"Considering what?" said Severus, because that's what Potter would say. He knew full well what Flitwick meant.

"Considering the hell he put this school through as headmaster, my boy! Now, now, I know perfectly well it was all for the good, but I don't think there will ever come a day when I don't see his face and want to hex it," said Flitwick.

"Not unreasonable, given the circumstances," said Severus. Flitwick looked surprised, as though he'd expected some defence, which was bizarre considering he thought he was talking to Potter.

"Well," said Flitwick, and his eyes flicked to where Potter was politely accepting the butter dish, "Perhaps this little visit will heal some old wounds. Assuming, of course, that he's changed at all since the war?"

"I daresay he has," said Snape dryly. 

"Hmm," said Flitwick thoughtfully, still looking at Potter-in-Severus, and then he turned to Sinistra, presumably to disseminate the news.

Severus was beginning to feel immensely better at the thought of not having to directly deal with any of his disgruntled ex-colleagues. He piled his plate with sausages and eggs, and tucked into breakfast with vigor he would not have had in his own body.

But, of course, after breakfast came classes. Fingering the parchment schedule in his pocket, he gave Potter a glance, stood up, and then strolled nonchalantly in the direction of the entrance hall. First period was Ravenclaw and Slytherin first years. Though he would not have chosen first year students, Ravenclaw and Slytherin were his favoured combination—all in all, not the worst start to the week. And, of course, they'd probably forgive him if he couldn't remember their names, as they had only known each other for a few months. Not that he was necessarily going to forget their names, once introduced; he considered it a special skill.

Severus stopped at the door to the entrance hall, to see if Potter was following him. He was a little behind, striding between the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw tables with his eyes on Severus, but Severus could see a Gryffindor seventh year getting up from the table ahead of him. Severus saw the boy's face in profile and read _trouble_. He slipped his hands into the pockets of Potter's teaching robes, a Potterish gesture that conveniently disguised Severus's hand closing around his wand. A seventh year Gryffindor with a grudge... he could do some damage.

"Professor Snape," said the boy loudly. Potter started. 

"Yes?" said Potter, his hands sliding down his sides as though they would also like to enter his pockets, but resting against the fabric in fists instead.

"You might not remember me," said the boy. Potter glanced at Severus slightly; Severus gave a tiny nod. He _did_ recognise the boy now, though he'd been much smaller when they'd last met.

"Yes, Mr Callister, I remember you," said Potter, appropriately wary.

"Do you?" said the boy, looking surprised. "Well, then you probably remember the night you caught Neville Longbottom trying to sneak me into the Room of Requirement after the Carrows found out about Granddad," he said.

Potter's eyebrows raised. Another flick of his eyes in his direction, and Severus nodded again. Neville bloody Longbottom. A thorn in his side, the absolute epitome of a Gryffindor.

"Yes," said Potter.

"He hit you with a bat bogey hex. Hell of a good one. Your nose got three times the size with all the bats in it, and that's saying something."

Once again, Severus was intensely grateful he was in Potter's body, because it was only the fact that he was pretending to be Potter that prevented him from flaring up at the little brat. But the brat was _not_ a brat, he was a near-adult, and Severus knew where this conversation was going.

Potter, of course, was not indignant at this shameless disrespect. He actually looked like he was having a hard time not smiling.

"Oh yes," he said tautly, and to the outside, it might have looked like an attempt to keep his anger at bay. Little Toby Callister, of course, was not at all cowed, just grinned at Potter while the room around him burst into giggling whispers.

"Well," said Callister. "I always thought you could have stopped him. I always thought it looked like you... hesitated."

A dark corridor. One terrified child, one endlessly defiant young man. Longbottom's face had been hidden behind a hood, but Severus knew it was him. It was always him. 

Both of them had been so close to their goal of escape. Severus hadn't even been looking for trouble that night. Of course he had hesitated.

"An off day, I'm sure," said Potter, letting his smirk break free. Toby looked at him for a long moment, then he clapped a hand over his mouth to control the nervous giggle that burst from it. The Gryffindors around him burst into fresh giggles too. Potter gave them a benevolent look, still letting his mouth quirk up at the corners.

Severus cursed him. He was setting a precedent here that Severus would not be able to match. Smiling at Gryffindors indeed.

"You literally haunted my nightmares," said Toby, suddenly going serious. "But I guess you're alright by me now." 

And he held out his hand to shake.

Severus rolled his eyes internally. _Oh, so pleased to have achieved the approval of a typical upstanding Gryffindor like you, Callister,_ he thought. _Whatever would I do without it? I didn't do it for you, idiot boy, and I'd thank you to show some respect..._

Potter, of course, would not say anything of the sort. He took the hand and shook it.

"I didn't do it for you, Mr Callister," said Potter, surprising him, but he was still wearing that smirk.

"No. You did it for all of us," said Toby, undeterred by the wry comeback. He picked up his glass of pumpkin juice from the table. "To Snape," he said.

"To Snape!" echoed his friends, and the toast rolled out from them like a wave, whispers and shouts, some sixth-year jokers at the Gryffindor table shouting, "To the greasy git!" but with smiles on their faces, the whole hall raising their glasses until the cry reached Slytherin, who began a fierce clap. Several students stood up.

Potter looked thunderstruck and quietly thrilled. Minerva was watching the scene with a complicated expression, both thoughtful and amused. Severus... Severus didn't know what to think. This was not how his life went; he did not get snotty dreadful Gryffindors declaring earnest toasts to him. Whole rooms of people did not clap him. There had been no accolades at the trials, just endless suspicion and tedious moral debate and hours and hours of _waiting_. He suspected that if he'd died the whole matter would have been settled with a posthumous Order of Merlin and a few speeches about noble sacrifice, but he'd thrown an unexpected spanner in those works.

"Thank you," said Potter quietly, directly to Toby Callister, who grinned and sat down. As if on cue, the rest of the room quietened, turning to each other to dissect this strange event in loud whispers. Potter looked at Severus.

"You didn't clap," he said, the hint of mischief in his eyes. Severus just gave him a long look, and then turned to get out of this mad place.

Potter hurried to catch up to him and they walked in step towards Potter's classroom on the fourth floor. Severus felt like his throat had closed up.

"Well, that was quite something," said Harry eventually, when they were alone.

"Of all the pompous, egocentric, stuck-up little—"

"Oh don't bother, Snape, you know you've always wanted that," said Potter impatiently.

"I—" Severus knew this was true. Or once had been. He couldn't count the number of times he'd sat in that hall, watching the children look at him in fear or anger, screaming in his own head that they should be grovelling on the floor in gratitude, that Severus's entire _being_ was devoted to preventing their suffering, that _he_ was suffering, and worst of all it might all be for naught because any day now he might hear the news that Potter had failed...

Now he had their gratitude, though, he didn't know how to deal with it. He wanted, absurdly, nothing more than to reject it entirely.

"You really are a complete mess, aren't you?" said Potter, who'd been watching his twisting face with some amusement.

Severus wasn't going to murder Potter. He'd put so much effort into not murdering him over the years, he couldn't give up on that now.

But then Potter smiled, and although Severus hated what it did to his own face, the look in his eyes made his anger turn back into himself. Potter, the fool, was looking at him as though he saw Severus's hopeless weakness and liked him _more_ for it, not less.

"Shut up, Potter," he said, and Potter looked away from him to hide the widening of his smile.

*

Harry was having possibly the strangest morning ever.

But it was, for the most part, also one of the best. Because he thought there might be nothing more fascinating—and pleasing—than the sight of Severus Snape, trapped in Harry's body, looking terrified and appalled by the sight of his own dreams coming true.

He had the feeling he was going to enjoy the rest of the day.

*

Potter's classroom was nothing like Potions. It was large, sunlit and open, and today there was not a desk in sight. Instead, the room was lined with a circle of chairs. Three students were already sat in the circle, close to the window, quietly reading their textbooks. Ravenclaws, Severus couldn't help but appreciate them as students—although Merlin help you if they got too bored.

Severus looked at the chairs and then back at Potter, who shrugged, though the corner of his lip quirked.

"I see you focus more on practice and group interaction than desk work, Mr Potter," he said.

"Yes, so it seems," agreed Severus, sceptical. He preferred desks. It kept things... regimented. And it put something between himself and his students, which was always a comfort in a magical school.

The early students all began to eye Potter curiously. 

"Good morning," said Severus, drawing their attention back to him. "Mr Snape has kindly agreed to attend a few of this week's classes. As I'm sure some of you know, Mr Snape has some experience with Defence Against the Dark Arts."

Potter smirked at this and gave him a look, as Severus had hoped he would. The students simply stared at them.

Potter took a seat, and glanced at the one beside him. Severus sat, deeply uneasy at the layout. He was beginning to suspect Potter's teaching methods were based on the principle of 'What Wouldn't Snape Do?'

Not that he could precisely fault this.

He pulled out the schedule Potter had written for him. Potter had added notes below each class: lesson plans, class ability, problem students, issues to watch out for. They'd agreed that the next two weeks would deviate slightly from Potter's usual approach, partly to accommodate his presence in class and partly because Severus did _not_ wish to try teaching Potter's very personal, very hands-on syllabus.

The remaining students filtered into the classroom, filling all the seats except one. Severus eyed it, wondering who was missing; the Slytherin girls on either side of the gap looked both annoyed and shifty.

At two minutes past nine, a little dot of a girl dashed into the room, Slytherin scarf trailing on the floor. Everyone turned to look at her; she turned up her chin. Severus would have taken five points without hesitation, but Potter was probably as soft as butter.

Potter nudged him in the ribs and murmured,

"Check the back of your schedule."

Severus turned it over. On the back was a list. The first item read:

_Late, less than five minutes: 1 pt_

"I have a system," said Potter in his ear.

"So I see," said Severus.

"So it's fair."

"Yes, I understand the principle," said Severus dryly. "A point from Slytherin," he said loudly, still looking casually down at Potter's notes.

"Aw, _Sir,_ " said the girl. "I was late for a _really good reason_ , you see there was this Hufflepuff, and she was crying, and because I'm such a good citizen I just _had_ to—"

Severus did look up at her then, but only to give her a sceptical eyebrow. The girl's chin raised again, but she closed her mouth and sat in her seat.

"Settle down, class," said Severus, somewhat unnecessarily as the whole class was silently watching this exchange. "Now. I'm sure you won't have failed to notice that we have a guest. Some of you may be familiar with the name Severus Snape." Several earnest nods at this. "As he is no longer a Professor at Hogwarts, you may call him Mr Snape, or Sir. I believe that Mr Snape would appreciate introductions, so we will go clockwise around the circle and say our names and Houses. Of course, you all know me as Professor Potter."

He looked to the child on his left, who stuttered out,

"H-Hepzibah Masters. Ravenclaw."

Severus listened carefully to each name in turn. The trick was to block them in groups, Masters-Jensen-Rowan-Smith-Bones, then name each of them out loud at least once during the first class. He was a little rusty, but he felt confident he could manage it. Although it would impress no-one but Potter this time.

Once the last students had said their names—Goldstein Asante Williams Burke—Severus ruffled his papers a little and asked: 

"Is there anyone in the room _not_ familiar with Mr Snape?"

A few tentative hands, fewer than he would have expected in a first year class, but he supposed it might be different in a room full of Gryffindors or Hufflepuffs. 

"Would anyone like to explain Mr Snape's significance to this class?"

Rather more hands. Potter nudged him subtly with his foot, and then looked at a serious-looking boy to their left.

"Jensen," said Snape. Potter looked between them, and although his face was static, Severus was fairly confident he was impressed.

"Professor Snape was a spy in the war," said the boy, putting his hand down. "He was instrumental in the defeat of Voldemort."

Severus successfully controlled his flinch. None of the children winced, but everyone in the room looked suddenly serious. The students who'd raised their hands, likely Muggleborns, looked rather anxious.

"Correct," said Severus, then with a glance at his paper, "One point." 

He didn't know why hearing students talk about his very real achievements was making his stomach feel like snakes. 

"Now, the lesson today will not be on the war, but it would be unreasonable to expect you to ignore the presence of Mr Snape and focus on Pixies and Imps, so for the first twenty minutes you'll be free to ask any questions you might have. I cannot promise Mr Snape will answer, I warn you, and he has that right."

The sea of eleven-year-old faces nodded, each of them very solemn. 

"Okay," said Severus. "Questions?"

The tardy blonde Slytherin girl—Smith—raised her hand first. Severus was somewhat wary of letting her set the tone of the questions for the group, but he nodded to her anyway.

"It's to both of you a bit, but mostly Mr Snape," she said. "What was he like?"

Potter glanced at him. For a moment, their faces were a complex, uneasy mirror image.

"Voldemort, do you mean?" said Potter eventually, turning back. Severus mentally cursed him; he was probably going to have to say it too, like the word didn't open a sickening pit inside him.

"Yes," said Merida, meeting his eye. Potter sighed, and then contemplated the question.

"Noseless," he said eventually, and the tension broke in a ripple of giggles.

"Well _everyone_ knows that," said Merida after a moment, with a grin. "I meant before that."

"A wise question," said Potter. "Before he was Voldemort, his name was Tom."

"Oh no," whispered a boy, " _I'm_ called Tom!"

"Oh shh, _Voldemort_ , we're listening to Snape," said his neighbour, and the two of them hid their giggles behind their hands. Severus was faintly appalled.

"He went to Hogwarts, just like you. He was clever, and charming, and handsome. But even from a young age he was missing something very important. He didn't see others as people. He lived in a world where every other human was an object. And whilst that alone doesn't make a Dark Lord, he also had some Dark obsessions. He enjoyed power over others. He was obsessed with conquering death. And he was convinced that Muggles deserved to be subjugated under him."

"So why?" said a Ravenclaw boy. "Why'd you follow him in the first place?"

Potter sent a faintly anxious glance at Severus.

"An interesting exercise for us all," said Severus, rescuing him. "What methods do you think brought a young Tom Riddle his followers?"

The classroom was contemplative.

"Fear," said Asante. That was two students who had not raised their hands before speaking, but there was nothing about it on Potter's sheet, so he let it slide.

"Certainly that's how he _kept_ followers," said Potter. "And perhaps a few people might have wished to hide behind his power as it grew."

"But that's not _your_ reason," said little Merida Smith. A quick glance at Severus, then Potter said,

"No."

"You said he was charming," said the boy called Tom. "So, he persuaded people he was right."

"You also said he was good-looking," joked the boy who'd called him Voldemort. 

"Indeed, Mr Goldstein. And there's no reason to pretend that his looks did not have an impact on his persuasive skills," said Severus.

"One of many reasons why we don't judge people by their physical attributes," agreed Potter, looking sternly at Goldstein.

"So what else?" said Williams, running a hand through her hair and looking intensely at Potter.

"Racism," said one of the boys who'd put his hand up to indicate his lack of knowledge of Snape. Everyone looked at him.

"I don't know much about Snape," said the boy fiercely, blushing, "But I know what Voldemort was about. Oppressing people who weren't magic, or born to magic parents."

"Racism has a slightly different meaning to pureblood supremacy, and I sincerely mean it when I say that is a topic we will discuss another day," said Potter, for a moment forgetting he was not supposed to be leading the class. "But you're right. Voldemort attracted ancient pureblood families by playing to their fear of progress and their fear of Muggles. By promising them he would restore them to their rightful position of supremacy."

Several of the Slytherin children looked shifty at this. Severus thought of Draco, a pureblood in an impossible position, forced to choose between his family values and his own, admittedly feeble, moral compass. 

"Anyone have any opinions on that?" said Severus. No-one said anything. "You, Mr Blyth?" He looked at the boy who'd said _racism_.

"We have magic," said the boy slowly. "But... we're not _better_. You wouldn't say Voldemort was better than Ghandi just because one of them had magic. You wouldn't say he was better than _any_ Muggles. Well... maybe a few really bad ones."

"Indeed," agreed Severus.

"I mean, you could even say that our powers give us a responsibility to _protect_ Muggles," said the boy, warming to his subject. "Like the Avengers."

"Muggles could blow us all to smithereens with an atom bomb," said one of the uneasy Slytherins sharply. "They don't need _looking after_."

"They have technology and weaponry, that is true," agreed Potter. "The Ministry keeps an eye on such things, and the International Confederation of Wizards, but it's a very complex balancing act. There's never one right answer. Beware of anyone who claims to have one answer."

This was a lesson that clearly resonated with the audience. There was a moment of silence, and Severus dared to hope for a moment that he could assign them their reading and be left in peace. Little Merida Smith, of course, had other ideas.

"You're a _half-blood_ ," she said, looking sharply at Potter-in-Snape. " _You_ couldn't have bought into all that stuff, surely?"

Severus kept his face turned away from Potter's. The students were better interrogators than the Wizengamot.

"An interesting question, Miss Smith," said Potter quietly. "Perhaps one to put to the group again. Why would a non-pureblood choose to follow Voldemort?"

"Because they hated their parents," said a dark-eyed boy, Rowan Jones, staring at his lap. Severus glanced at Potter in alarm. Potter caught his eye, frowning.

The other students looked at Potter-in-Snape in dawning realisation, various levels of uncomfortable empathy passing across their features. No, a half-blood with loving parents probably wouldn't follow Voldemort, would he?

"Yes," said Potter gently. "That was part of it. Families are not always... what they should be. I was angry. I was in pain. Voldemort looked for that kind of person and used them for his own ends."

"There is one other motive we have not covered," said Severus, once this had sunk in and it was clear there were no other questions forthcoming. "The Dark Arts themselves. I feel confident that everyone in the room is intelligent enough to appreciate the challenges and intricacies, the creativity and power required to wield dark magic. Lord Voldemort believed that there should be no restrictions on magic, no limits—I'm sure you can appreciate the appeal of that, too.

"But Dark magic is Dark because it involves the suffering of others. Either in the process of casting, or as its purpose. Voldemort sought to make his subjects forget that: to make other people and animals objects, just as he saw them. It is easier than you might think to fall to such patterns of thought. There is no more important thing to defend in Defence against The Dark Arts than one's own mind against the influence of those who would seek to manipulate you. Be on guard for the lies such people tell, to make you see another sentient being as an _object_ or an _other_."

Potter was staring at him, he knew. Severus, still fragile from this morning's unexpected celebration of his dubious virtue, didn't look at him.

The students looked rapt.

"Well said," said Potter quietly. Asante's hands twitched like she wanted to clap, but mercifully restrained herself.

"Thank you," said Snape brusquely. "Well, I think that's enough of that for today. If you have any questions resulting from this discussion, you may speak to me after. The rest of the lesson will be quiet reading. If you would please take out your books and read Chapter twelve."

Several hands shot up.

"If you have already read it, please take notes."

Two hands went down. 

"If you have already made notes," said Severus, cursing Ravenclaws, "You may create a fact sheet on the topic of your choice—Imps, Pixies, or any other topic we have studied so far. The best sheets will be shared with the rest of your year at exam time as revision guides and will receive five House points."

The remaining hands went down, their owners looking rather pleased at this, and some of the Slytherins looked rather pleased, too, that they would not have to make their own revision notes.

Severus was always rather worried when Ravenclaws and Slytherins got together.

Severus relaxed back into his chair, pushing it back from the circle and pulling out _Tales of Unusual Magicks._ Potter followed suit, pulling out his own reference book with considerably less enthusiasm.

*

It was decidedly not Harry's idea to bring their research to lessons, and he did not have it in him to concentrate for a single moment. Instead, he found himself staring at Snape, who looked absorbed in his reading as though they'd not just worked through an intense philosophical discussion with a bunch of overly smart eleven-year-olds. The things he'd said—Harry hadn't realised how much he'd needed to hear them from Snape. Because for all that Harry believed him to be a good man, or at least, a man who had the _potential_ for goodness, there was no particularly compelling evidence in his Pensieve secrets that he was spying on Voldemort for any reason other than guilt and revenge. Harry wondered at what point Snape's values had shifted.

Examining his own face was not getting Harry any further insights, so Harry instead looked at Rowan Jones. The boy hadn't made much of an impression on him, a quiet child, but he looked at his dark eyes and solemn expression in a new light now. He would have to talk to Flitwick about him. Or rather, Snape would.

The rest of the day went much the same as the first class. Harry found that he enjoyed the day immensely, enjoyed the way each new age and House group came at the issues that were raised, the questions they thought to ask. The end of the day was a seventh year class, a small group of Auror-track students from all four houses; he only had to answer a few of their questions with a question and then sit back as an interesting and deeply involved discussion on the politics of the second war developed. Harry was very proud of his students. Some days he couldn't help but think they were all much, much smarter than him.

Harry was surprised at how content Severus seemed to do things Harry's way, once the first class had gone well. 

"We make a good team, you know," said Harry as they headed back to their rooms.

"Hmm," said Snape, which was practically an enthusiastic agreement, for him.

"Thanks for this," said Harry, after a moment.

"Potter," said Snape tiredly. "Please understand what I mean when I say, _shut up_."

Harry smiled. He thought he probably did understand.

*

About half-way through the week, Harry's patience for research snapped.

"That's it," he said, standing up. "We have to _try_ something. Anything. _Finite Incantatem!_ "

He fired the spell past Snape's shoulder, hitting the totem dead-on. The spell ricocheted and hit the overhead light, which promptly went out.

Snape sighed into the darkness. Harry scowled, and re-lit the lamp with his wand.

"Any other ideas?" said Snape, tone dripping with sarcasm.

"We could try... touching it again?"

"Very well," said Snape. "You first."

Harry leant over Snape, picked up the totem, glared at it, and then threw it back to Snape. Nothing happened.

"How about something on _us_. Magical examination. Is there a spell to look at our brains or something?"

Snape raised an eyebrow.

"Huh," said Harry, getting his meaning immediately. "Not what I meant, but worth a try, right?"

Snape contemplated him.

"Very well. But this time I don't want you to fight me, Potter. I've had enough of your involuntary hexes."

Harry raised his eyebrows.

"Bloody hell, Snape, did you just acknowledge that I wasn't being terrible at Occlumency on purpose?"

"Yes, Potter," said Snape silkily. "I have come to accept that your incompetence is immutable."

Harry glared.

"Just do it," he said. Snape nodded, reaching for his wand.

" _Legilimens!_ " said Snape, brandishing his wand with an unnecessary amount of glee. The spell hit Harry, there was a dreadful split-second where the world seemed to pinch inwards like stretched bubblegum, and then Snape's wand hand and Harry's entire body flew backwards with an unpleasant _pop._

"Ow," said Harry, looking at Snape from the floor. "Er... get anything?"

"A sensation not unlike falling headfirst into an infinity mirror," said Snape, looking slightly green. "I consider the experiment a failure."

Harry sighed.

"Alright," he said, still on the floor. "Books it is."

Snape strode over to him and offered a hand. Harry stared at it. Snape had never helped him up, not _one_ of the times he'd found himself on the floor at his feet.

Snape caught the look, tensed, but did not withdraw the hand. Harry took it. The fingers were warm, and Harry closed his eyes, pretending to himself that he was not indulging in the moment.

Snape pulled him to standing. Harry opened his eyes and smiled.

Snape looked... alarmed. Harry just smiled wider at this, and picked up another book.

*

Severus could still see it when he closed his eyes. The infinite stretch, the flashes of his thoughts and Potter's feelings and then his again, rebounding in an accelerating chaos, stretching out without end. It had felt like forever, felt like he was trapped in a loop that would never break, felt like he fell for a million years—

Potter was smiling at him, their hands clasped. Reckless, so reckless, what had he been _thinking_? He knew the dangers of the mind, why had he let himself be swept along in the adventure, the wild curiosity of what was behind those awkwardly familiar eyes?

Severus was beginning to think Potter might be bad for him.

*

Harry couldn't quite believe it when it got to Saturday. He'd actually spent a week living with Severus Snape without bloodshed. Living with him, _and_ letting him teach his lessons.

If he were completely honest with himself, he... had almost enjoyed it. Snape was a different man to the one he remembered. This Snape, it seemed, was a man who no longer had the power to torment him, and seemed to barely have the inclination. He'd even been so agreeable in lessons that Harry left him to take a half of Thursday and Friday unsupervised. 

In exchange for this good behaviour, Harry attempted both to apply himself to the week's research, and also to make the man as comfortable as he could. He made sure he ate, kept the tea and biscuits coming, asked quiet questions about the research, and deliberately didn't ask him questions about anything else.

Snape's shoulders had been descending all week. Today was particularly calming; without the pressure of lessons, they'd spent longer in the cool winter air than usual, and Snape had participated in Quidditch drills with minimal resistance or mockery. To show his gratitude, Harry had accepted a full day of quiet research with only a little fidgeting. He had even let Snape off lunch in the Great Hall, although he'd absolutely refused to miss Sunday dinner. 

Now, Snape looked almost relaxed, face lit by the warm glow of the fire and deep in a book on the mysteries of Wizarding consciousness. Harry watched him from over the week's marking, content and comfortably full of Sunday dinner. It was... pleasant, Harry realised, just to have company. He hadn't realised, what with all the bustle of his work days, that he'd spent so many evenings quietly lonely.

Snape yawned, and then looked irritated, as though annoyed that he could be succumbing to the need for sleep. Snape seemed to find virtually anything that wasn't merciless logic to be a weakness, which was absurd considering Snape was so often a boiling cauldron of emotion. When it came to sleeping in particular, Snape was endearingly stubborn, like an exhausted child.

Of course, Harry was also resisting sleep. But that was somewhat due to the fever dreams that had plagued him all week. They were vivid, visceral, and very much about Snape. 

Harry assumed it was a symptom of the body swap, and probably of his determination that he would not touch himself in Snape's body. He tried very hard not to think about just how good the dreams felt, just how much he wanted... relief. Or how he felt when he caught a look at himself in the bedroom mirror, Snape's face less hollow, his posture better, his hair shining, his arms and shoulders noticeably improving already... 

His mouth open slightly, pupils dilated, eyes dark pools... 

Harry stared at Snape-in-Harry, wishing he could see inside his head. He wondered if he was resisting sleep for the same reason as Harry. This tension... it was _definitely_ a symptom. It had to be. Did he dare ask about it? 

But Snape didn't _seem_ to be suffering, not as Harry was, he was just involved in his book. Perhaps it was the transfigured bed that was putting him off. No matter your transfiguration skills, they were never quite the same.

"You know," said Harry, smiling at Snape, because the man had his head down too far and his glasses were sliding down his nose. "You can sleep in my bed tonight, if you like."

Snape started, then stared up at him with a strange, hunted look. Harry held his gaze for a moment, until with a kind of creeping horror he realised that Snape must have thought—thought what? That they could share?

"I'll take the sofa," he added breathlessly, colour rising up his cheeks, and Snape was still looking hunted, and now there was something else in his face too, something dark and scared and perhaps even... guilty.

The intensity of the expression made Harry's spine tingle. He had the sudden, involuntary thought that a warm body next to him would be... good. 

Mercifully, Snape spoke before he could contemplate that further.

"That is unnecessary," he said.

"Honestly, I haven't offered so far out of pure spite," he said, because he knew Snape would probably feel more at ease with pettiness than kindness. "But that's not really good host behaviour, is it? Although I guess I'm not exactly the host right now. I should probably just ask Minerva for a room..."

"Merlin knows what she thinks about our current sleeping arrangements," muttered Snape, and Harry's blush came flooding back, accompanied by a sharp, hot spike of shame. Even thinking that someone _else_ might think that they were—

Harry tried to tell himself that the full-body flush he felt was nothing more than horror.

Then Snape raised his voice to add, "These are your rooms. I can see why you would not want to move out of them. And it might appear somewhat strange if I do."

"That's true enough," said Harry. "But I'm going to ask the house-elves if we can provide a proper bed, at least."

"That would be good," said Snape. A slight pause, a clenching of hands around the book. "Thank you."

Harry looked at Snape for a long moment, trying not to smile. Snape continued to study his book, though his eyes were not moving over the page.

Snape, it seemed, was making an _effort._ It was funny, thought Harry, as he rang the bell-pull, what could happen in just a week.

*

Severus couldn't decide which was worse.

There were the days, where he assigned chapters to read, tried to speak very little, and ignored more minor transgressions in a day than he had in his entire career as Potions Master. It was... tolerable enough, like the years before Potter came to Hogwarts. Like the years when he'd had little to worry about besides keeping an eye on the Slytherins, betting on the Quidditch, and settling in to the sucking misery of his life. 

The students were not as gushing and fawning as he'd expected; indeed, Potter's classes were quite well-behaved, even somewhat wary, and they engaged in the discussions with enthusiasm and insight. But there were still some terrible moments: a few bumbling idiots who expected comfort and reassurance rather than scorn; an embarrassing incident of earnest gratitude from some seventh-year Ravenclaws who seemed to take his sudden focus on books over practice as a personal favour; several obvious crushes which made bile rise in Severus's throat, and which he tried to eliminate with nothing more than force of his disapproving glare. 

And there were some students who were sharply brilliant and a delight to be around, which was almost worse, because Severus did not _want_ to like any of them. They were all Potter's, and if they valued his insight, if any of them bloomed under his attention, it was entirely because of him.

Then there were the evenings, where Potter would greet him with tea and a smile as if this were normal, as if they liked each other. Severus would hand him his notes on the events of the day, and Potter would read it and snort at the snarky bits. Then Potter would tell him everything he'd learned that day (not much of use) and read him passages from books that he'd found relevant (or more often, amusing). And Severus felt as if he could fall, down, down, _down,_ into the infinite well of Potter's warmth. 

He resisted it. He sniped and snarked against it, pretended not to notice that his barbs no longer worked and that Potter _laughed_ , as though he _appreciated_ it, as though his black and ugly sense of humour was a source of delight. He scowled and he repressed his smiles and he fought it, because if he didn't fight it, it would drown him.

Then... then there were the nights. Tense, frustrated, _aching_. Thinking of Potter, trying _not_ to think of him. Trying not to think about his body, lying there in the dark, absolute perfection. Trying to resist the urge to touch it. Pressing one hand against the cloth-covered bulge of his erection, _groaning_ , willing this cruel and unusual torment to end. He just _couldn't_ cross that line of intimacy: to _see_ Potter's cock, to actually feel it in his hand. It was too much.

He was absolutely sure he was going to go mad.

He was glad when his second week of teaching came to an end, but all it meant was that he had another Saturday to think about. With Potter.

**Part Four**

"You know, I think we might be wasting our time," said Harry, letting the _Tretys of Margery Greene,_ _Wicche_ fall from his hands. He'd been trying to interpret Middle English all afternoon, armed with nothing but a short reference sheet and the vague memory of a lesson with Professor Binns. It was giving him a headache. "If we can't talk or write about it, who's to say anyone else could? We'd be better off finding our own solution."

Severus looked up from his marking. They took the marking in batches now, both of them invested in the grades but also both aware that it was deathly dull. They squabbled over the more interesting students' papers.

Harry noticed with amusement that Snape was getting really good at making Harry's uncooperative facial muscles raise only _one_ eyebrow.

Harry just stared back, silently pleading with him. They needed a break.

"Perhaps," said Snape eventually, surprising Harry. 

"I was thinking... we could go with the students to Hogsmeade tomorrow," said Harry hopefully. "Maybe revisit the museum, see if they have any more information about the exhibits, any other finds from the McNeill dig. Maybe there's even some sort of object that reverses it. And if we take supervision duty it'll curry favour with Vector, she's down to supervise the trip with Trelawney and she can't stand the woman. It'll probably mean she'll let me—or you, us, whoever—off the Valentine trip. And we wouldn't have to put up with Trelawney if we're both going, she could stay home too. I bet she would rather spend the day up in her rooms _communing with the spirits_."

"Very well," said Snape, with barely a moment's pause. Harry stared at him. He was beginning to worry what all this acquiescence actually meant.

"Great," he said. "I'll send them a note now."

He wrote the notes quickly, before Snape could change his mind. He folded them both into rough paper aeroplanes and then spelled them to fly off to their targets. Snape just watched him, looking tired and vaguely defeated. It made Harry feel... guilty. 

Still, the thought of a Hogsmeade weekend tomorrow made the evening's research fly past all the faster. And if he found himself watching Snape more than he read... well, that was fine too.

*

Hogsmeade was a postcard in the morning light, cottages nestled under a glittering blanket of snow. Red-faced students huddled in their house scarves and wooly hats, laughing and jostling and slipping about the place. Severus watched them running about, carefree and liable to break their necks at any moment, and felt his nerves begin to fray.

Potter was wearing a look of badly-disguised joy. There was a flush high on his cheekbones, and the dark eyes reflected the sparkling light of the snow. Potter looked as though he were barely holding himself back from joining the students in their snowball fight.

Severus had occupied that body for over forty years, and he was sure he'd never looked so innocently happy.

He looked away. Potter was relentless torment; there seemed to be no end to the ways that he could hurt him. Severus felt raw and open every moment he spent with the boy, and Potter didn't even notice. Just kept holding back that infectious smile.

To distract himself, he tugged at the wool of his ridiculous jumper. It had been a challenge indeed, trying to decide which of them should wear Potter's single cloak. Severus was initially determined to wear it, only to give it up at the sight of the alternative, a large wooly _HP_ emblazoned on his own chest. He could _not_ bear to see his own body bedecked in Harry Potter's bloody _brand_. No, better for him to wear it, and let people know that Potter was a narcissistic prat with terrible taste.

At least it was warm. And surprisingly soft.

"Come on then," said Potter, and even his tone leaked glee. "Race you to the museum?"

"Certainly not," said Severus, folding his arms and tucking his icy fingers into his armpits.

"Cheer up, _Harry_ ," said Potter quietly, glancing around him in an unsubtle way which made Severus wonder how he'd ever managed to be an Auror. "You love Hogsmeade at Christmas, remember?"

Severus thought he could hear the faint sound of carols on the air. He thought he might be sick.

"Hooray," he said dryly. "I love Hogsmeade at Christmas."

At least the Museum was off the beaten track, although the little alleyway that led to it was treacherous with ice. Potter slipped several times. Severus told himself that the twitching movements he made to catch the boy were simply to protect the condition of his body. 

Severus's ridiculous jeans were soaked by the time they came upon the grey stone building, and there was snow melting on his glasses. Due to this infuriating obstacle, Potter spotted the sign on the door before Severus did. He stopped dead, nearly sending Severus barrelling into him.

_Hogsmeade Museum is Closed until the New Year._

_Merry Christmas!_  
  
"Ah," said Potter.

"Indeed," said Severus, frustrated beyond belief.

"Well..." said Potter after a moment. "No need to waste the trip. Gladrags? We really could do with some new clothes."

He glanced at the dreaded jumper with a smirk. _It's your bloody jumper,_ thought Severus irritably.

"Fine," said Severus. Potter looked surprised, an expression which Severus was almost beginning to enjoy.

They had to dodge far, far too many people to get to Gladrags, and Severus was quite sick of how much less he could see over the crowd. It was positively claustrophobic. Potter seemed to be enjoying the extra elevation at least, although Potter seemed to enjoy everything.

After the third shopper bumped him, apologised, recognised him and apologised even more, Severus had to grip his belt loops to prevent himself from going for his wand.

This was not good. Severus was contemplating murder already, and they'd not even entered the shop.

The front half of the shop looked as though Christmas had vomited all over the racks, and there was some sort of terrible singing display in the window. It was nothing short of a nightmare, and Severus was quite sure he'd rather face Nagini all over again than stay here.

Then Potter caught his arm, pulling him close.

"I don't like crowds either, you know," he said, in his ear. "Even happy Christmas ones. Come to the back, it's not so bad."

Severus did not resist Potter's insistent tugging on his arm, and he was right; back here, where the more businesslike cloaks and robes lived, it was quieter. A couple of first-year students were twirling with some dress robes they clearly had no intention of buying, but a raised eyebrow from him sent them off in a grating duet of giggles.

"Right," said Harry. "Snapey clothes. Hmm."

He crossed over to the long rack of traditional black work robes, then glanced back at Severus.

"Do you ever do Muggle clothes?" he said.

"No," said Snape, folding his hands.

"Not ever?"

"Not if I can avoid it."

"Not even under your robes?"

" _Potter._ "

"Oh, come off it, Snape, I'm not being funny with you."

"Fine. I have, on occasion, worn trousers and an undershirt, in case I find myself obliged to flee somewhere. Mercifully, those days are now rare."

It was not the _done thing_ to wear clothes under robes, he'd learned that early on in the Slytherin dorms. And if he was honest, his father's disapproval of wizard attire made the call to magical tradition all the stronger. James Potter's enthusiasm for his stolen _Levicorpus_ did not cow him; he would not change for _them._

Snape looked around at the racks, noting the hoodies and jeans and suspiciously Potter-esque jumpers dotted amongst the robes and cloaks. He sighed. Though his burning hatred of his father was no more than a bitter memory now, he still did not want anything to do with Muggle culture. Since the final fall of the Dark Lord, however, Muggle culture was rather fashionable; even the old pureblood families made a point of being photographed in suits. 

Perhaps it would not hurt to try it. Or for Potter to. If he insisted.

Potter was pulling a strange expression, which Snape supposed was disgust at contemplating Severus Snape's underthings, although it didn't look like it exactly.

"I see," he said faintly. Then, "Look, I tell you what. I'll grab some different things to try on. You can pick up some clothes that don't offend you as much as that jumper. Then we'll meet at the changing rooms."

"Fine," said Severus. "Ten minutes."

"Fine," said Potter, rolling his eyes, and immediately headed towards a rack of multi-coloured shirts. 

Snape scowled. He was almost tempted to brave the Christmas section just to find something that made Potter look truly hideous, but then again, how much worse could it get than the jumper? Or the ragged jeans? Or those dreadful jogging bottoms?

Snape picked up a black shirt. Then another, slightly different one. Then a Slytherin green shirt. And then a midnight blue shirt and a charcoal shirt, because he suspected Potter was going to be difficult about black. Then a waistcoat, and smart black trousers, and a slightly different cut of smart black trousers, then black slim fit jeans in case Potter insisted that he would only wear denim, as his current wardrobe suggested. Then a few somewhat more classy jumpers, and a plain black robe just because, and a ridiculously expensive black dress robe with silver trim which Snape vowed to make Potter buy as an admittedly weak revenge for putting him through this. 

He was finished a full three minutes before Potter and went to wait by the changing rooms, casting a subtle and indeed, borderline illegal spell that would suggest to other customers that what they wanted was _not_ to try on clothes, but instead to have a slice of Madam Puddifoot's Famous Christmas Cake. 

Potter seemed to have picked up half the shop, and was attempting to hide most of it from view. There was a distressing amount of _colour_.

"Right," said Potter, when Severus gave a pointed glare at the clock above the fitting rooms. "Let's do this."

Two minutes later, Severus had pulled on some well-tailored black trousers and a black shirt, and was tapping his foot anxiously outside Potter's curtained fitting room.

"Close your eyes," said Harry, and Severus could hear the laugh in his voice.

"No," said Severus flatly, and Potter heaved a sigh and then pulled his curtain wide.

Potter had chosen to dress him in a loose black tank top, decorated with safety pins at the hem, which to Severus's horror showed far too much of his pale, angular shoulders and scar-tracked chest. He had his right hand on his hip, Dark Mark there for all to see, and the other hand raised in some vaguely familiar gesture with a raised little finger and forefinger. There was a wide black studded band on his wrist. His hair was down, and Potter had deliberately messed it up.

"Potter... are they... _leather trousers_?" he said.

He was utterly infuriated, and not for the reasons he'd expected. He looked ridiculous, of course, but... not as ridiculous as he _should_ have looked. Something about Potter's attitude, his lack of self-consciousness—as though he didn't _realise_ he was in an ugly body—seemed to make everything that Severus knew was disgusting about himself seem... less so.

Potter tried, valiantly, not to grin.

"Yeah," he said. "After the combats I just had to know. I wasn't seriously suggesting it as an outfit, obviously, although I—"

Instead of ending that sentence, he took a shifty glance at the mirror behind him, and then bit his lip and...

Severus didn't know what that expression was. 

His eyes flicked back down to the ridiculous trousers. They were tight and low on his hips, held up by a checkered belt.

"God save the Queen," he muttered. His pulse was racing, and he didn't know why.

"You what?" said Potter.

"I said, you look ridiculous." 

" _I_ look ridiculous?" he demanded, putting Snape's hands on his too-bony hips. "At least I don't look like a waiter. Or rather, I do."

Snape sighed, looking back into the mirror. It was true, something about Potter's youthful charm made the smart all-black look less forbidding and formal, more... like a waiter. Which was not to say the slim-fit shirt wasn't flattering, running silk over his well-muscled shoulders and narrow waist...

"Fine," muttered Snape, "But if you come out of that changing room in anything ridiculous again, I swear I'll—"

He didn't have a threat to follow up with, so he shut the changing room curtain with a snap.

When Potter came out next, he was wearing a white shirt and black waistcoat, well-tailored black trousers and respectable boots. He looked a little flushed, and he was doing that hidden-smile again. It made Severus look... wicked.

"Y _ou_ don't look like a waiter," said Harry, looking at the reflection in the mirror. "No fair."

Severus didn't like that you could see all the lines of his body, didn't like that Potter had pulled his hair back again, exposing his harsh, beakish face. He didn't like that Potter didn't seem to care about hiding the ugly scar at his neck, and he especially didn't like that Potter was turning and twisting, pulling fake-severe faces and looking over every inch of him.

"We're getting this one," said Potter.

"No," said Snape. God, he wanted to be out of here, hidden somewhere dark and warm with a book away from this horrible, nonsensical vulnerability.

He looked at himself, or rather himself-in-Potter, in the mirror. It was no comfort to him that Potter looked good in the emerald green roll-neck jumper, the chenille clinging to his shape, the colour making those accursed eyes glow. And the black jeans, jeans that actually fit and had no rips, jeans that he could _feel_ clinging to the muscular curve of Potter's arse...

Severus was taken aback by the hot, tight clench of his stomach. He could try to pretend, try to ignore the terrible cruelties of fate, but he _wanted..._

"I don't like the jumper," said Potter, interrupting the flow of his thoughts. 

"It suits you," argued Severus, then wished he could bite off his own tongue. Too late, though, as Potter was smiling, and he hated everything about that smile, from the way it made his own sallow face look, to the way it made hope leap to fill his hollow chest.

"Hmm," said Potter, still smiling. "I dunno... sort of looks like the sort of thing Malfoy's wearing nowadays. Do they have it in red?"

"No, but they have it in gold and covered in lions."

"Really?"

"No."

Potter glared, but it seemed a little weak.

"Fine," he said. "You can get it. Next one!"

Severus was already exhausted.

*

"Potter, I look like _you_."

Potter shrugged in his oversized hoodie. It made him look like a badly-dressed scarecrow. 

"It's comfortable."

"So are _robes._ "

"They're good for blending into a crowd."

"Perhaps for you, Potter. No, not even for you. I suspect the only reason Gladrags stocks oversized jumpers in the first place is because they're your trademark."

Potter had the good grace to blush, at least.

"That shirt is alright, I suppose," he said, and headed back into the changing room.

*

"Snape, I already _have_ black robes."

"You can never have too many."

"They're boring."

"Not as boring as that jumper, Potter. What about me made you think _cable knit sweater_?"

"Well, it's green."

"Potter. That is not _Noble House of Slytherin_ green. That's bile green."

"Well, you're the expert on bile, I'm sure."

Something about Potter's expression, smirking but gentle around the eyes, took the edge out of the barb. Severus wanted to be angry, but instead he found himself fighting an answering smile.

Potter's biology, no doubt. This infernal body couldn't wait to grin like a loon. There could be no other explanation.

*

"That is acceptable."

"Thought you might say that," said Potter, eyeing his own chest. The shirt he was wearing was black linen, with a criss-cross lacing at the neck. Potter had left the laces loose, but that was easily fixed. 

"And I suppose that's not bad either," continued Potter, eyeing the dark purple long-sleeved top and black jeans. "Bit... emo."

"Thank Merlin," said Severus, rolling his eyes. He had absolutely no idea what emo meant, and did not particularly care. "We're getting somewhere."

Potter's answering smile was almost affectionate.

Severus could do with a drink.

"Potter..." he said slowly, glancing in despair at the pile of clothes strewn across Potter's changing room. "Thrilling as this is..."

Harry looked back into his changing room and grimaced.

"Yeah, alright. One more go. Then... maybe the Three Broomsticks?" 

Snape nodded.

"One more go."

Returning to his changing room, Severus took a moment to arrange the remaining clothes. The approved pile was small but functional. He moved the expensive dress robes into it, already determined to sneak them past Potter, and he suspected Potter would allow the long-sleeved top in black as well as purple. Most of what he had left to try on was also black, and he had the strong suspicion Potter would not approve of any of it. 

They had not, however, solved the outerwear problem yet, so Severus pulled on the charcoal shirt, a black tie, and a knee-length, well-structured black coat. Potter looked different like this, the coat hanging loose, his hair a little wild from all the changing, his eyes shadowed behind his silver frames and black lashes. Severus raised an eyebrow at his reflection, and a dark, rakish man raised an eyebrow back at him. He smirked, and the man's smirk back was devastating, jawline angled and perfect, red mouth full of promise. 

Severus wondered, briefly, whether Potter's shabby style was deliberately calculated to avoid being too good-looking to be allowed. But that didn't fit with his idea of Potter as an arrogant, attention-seeking—

 _Oh, just give up,_ interrupted his own mind. _You know he's not. He's modest. He's charmingly self-conscious. He's the exact opposite of everything you hate._

"You ready?" said Potter, clearly impatient.

"Yes," said Severus, pulling back the curtain. 

Potter took in the outfit with an expression he couldn't read.

"I look weird," he said.

"So do I," said Severus. Potter was wearing a loose-fitting charcoal jumper with a slash neck, and grey jeans with a turn-up. There was something vaguely trendy about it, perhaps the overlong sleeves or the way the neckline showed too much shoulder, or maybe just that it was paired with Potter's dragonhide Auror boots. But it was understated, and well-fitting, and it made Severus look younger. More human. He looked like someone else, maybe the someone he might have been if he'd been born a Squib. Perhaps if he'd gone to school in Cokeworth, been a teenage punk, lived a single and interesting sort of Muggle life.

He closed his eyes. There had been a summer holiday, once, between fifth and sixth year, when his father went to visit his sister for a whole week. That week Severus had walked past the record shop in town, the place full of boots and turn ups, spiked hair and leather jackets. He'd watched the men, a familiar envy and an unwelcome something _else_ churning inside him, and when he saw a fiercely handsome man buy a lurid pink and yellow record with _SEX_ writtenon the front, he went in and shoplifted a copy. And when he got home he played it to his mother in the living room, and she'd laughed at it and said it was a bit mad, but then she got up and danced a wild dance, arms flowing, eyes closed, barefoot and still wearing her apron. He'd watched her, too self-conscious and teenage to join in, but enjoying the sight of her transported face. 

"I like it," said Harry gently, apparently aware he was intruding upon something complicated. "I think it looks... I dunno. I just like it." He stuck his hands in his jeans pockets in a distinctly Potterish fashion.

"Fine," said Severus, quietly, and Potter looked surprised but wisely did not comment.

"The coat is a bit... formal, I guess?" said Potter warily, after a moment. "Which, I suppose is not a totally bad thing. I just don't look... very me."

"By which you mean, smart?" said Snape, raising an eyebrow.

"Guess so," said Harry, grinning. "Fine, you can have the coat too."

"Very well," said Snape. 

"And I'll buy some more black robes," said Harry, earnest, as though he were trying to curry favour, although for what reason Severus could not imagine. "Can't hurt."

"Good," said Snape. They stayed looking at each other for a long moment.

"Great," said Harry. "See you at the till."

Severus reluctantly pulled on Potter's shabby jeans and hand-knit jumper, levitated the rejected clothes to the overflowing rack by the changing room door, and gathered the accepted clothes into his arms. The queue at the till was long, the staff looking harassed; Severus scowled impatiently at them before he remembered that it probably wasn't something Potter would do. Severus instead found himself staring at piles of socks, pants and sundry items, impulsively adding a few to his pile as he passed them. Potter joined him, eyed the pants and socks, and appeared to see the wisdom as he went off to get his own. Severus was not thrilled that the boxers he chose had tiny golden snitches on the waistband, but at least they were an understated set in grey, black and navy. Much better than Potter's deplorably novelty-heavy underwear drawer.

Merlin, if someone had told Severus just one month ago that he'd be familiar with Potter's underwear drawer...

"I assume you're paying, Potter, as you left all access I have to my bank account in my caravan."

"Yes, of course," said Potter, casually, as though spending a hefty pile of galleons on an entirely new wardrobe were nothing. "I'll put it on card. Or rather, _you_ will. It'll be a good test, actually, to see if Goblin magic is fooled too."

Severus raised an eyebrow at this. Potter smiled slightly, and handed him a small black box.

When they finally arrived at the till, the young woman serving them gave them a brusque 'good afternoon', looked up, met Severus's eyes and then went as scarlet as her twinkly bauble earrings.

"Good afternoon," said Potter, smiling encouragingly at her, and her eyes went even wider. "All together, please."

Harry dumped his handful on the counter. The lady, apparently too starstruck to speak, totalled up their goods in scarlet silence.

"One hundred and eighty-nine galleons, please," she said eventually. Severus had to hide his horror, but Potter just smiled.

"Go on then," he said, nudging Severus. Severus looked at the black box in his hand. It had a sliding button on one edge; he moved it, and a piece of gilt-edged card popped out, about the size of a business card. He pulled it out of the box and looked at it curiously; in gold script, it said:

_I, Harry James Potter, hereby authorise the sum of ... to be transferred from my account to the account of ..._

"About time, don't you think?" said Potter, "Muggles have been paying with cards for ages. Not like that though, plastic ones. Don't know why I'm telling you this, you probably know that. Or really don't care. Or both..."

Severus ignored him and handed the card to the cashier, who filled in the details with her quill and then touched her wand to the paper. It glowed gold and then vanished, which Severus presumed was a good thing as he was then handed his shopping with a quavering:

"Thank you for shopping at Gladrags, Mr Potter, Sir!"

"Thank you," said Severus, trying to resist rolling his eyes. 

"Hellish," he muttered as they moved away from the counter. There were far too many people between them and the exit.

"Agreed," said Harry, grinning. Severus still could not get used to that sight. "In fact, I think I need a drink. But first, I'd like to go and put some of these purchases on... what do you think?"

Severus sighed. They'd been so close, so close to escape...

"Very well," he said, and returned to the changing room, hopefully for the last time.

*

The Three Broomsticks was a bright bubble of warmth after the icy streets, air thick with the smell of warm wood and Butterbeer. Harry closed his eyes for a moment, heavy with nostalgia. He missed Ron and Hermione in these moments.

He glanced around at Snape, who had chosen to wear the long coat, the green chenille and the tight, black jeans. Harry had to admit, he looked more... adult, in those clothes, a far cry from a skinny teenager hiding behind scruffy hand-me-downs.

He looked down at himself. He didn't like to admit it, but Harry was enjoying being Snape today. He'd put the grey jumper back on, and the jeans with turn-ups. He couldn't quite believe that Snape had let him get away with the outfit, but he'd obviously accidentally hit on something that had some sort of... significance to Snape. 

As he took the cloak off Harry felt... impressive. He would never have imagined the effect being tall and interesting would have.

All eyes were upon them for a moment as they entered, although Snape, slightly in front of Harry, was getting most of the attention. That was another satisfying thing about today; Snape did not seem to know what to do with all the constant staring, the stammering apologies in the busy street, the blushing cashiers. Harry hoped he'd come to realise just how tiring it actually was, being the _famous Harry Potter_.

Not, of course, that Snape was _not_ famous, but he'd avoided the press for the most part and Harry had the feeling only his ex-students would recognise him, especially dressed like this.

"I'll get us a drink," he said, patting the pocket of his cloak, rattling some galleons. "If you find us somewhere to sit. I think there's a booth at the back there, the one with the creepy moose head. The students avoid sitting there, I heard a rumour that it's cursed."

Harry had loudly mentioned the alleged curse in front of a particularly chatty Hufflepuff last year, so that he and the other staff members had a better chance of getting a seat on Hogsmeade weekends. But he didn't entirely want to confess to something so Slytherin.

"Very well. Firewhiskey," said Snape, looking at him suspiciously.

"Just so you know, that body is a lightweight," said Harry. 

"I'll risk it," said Snape. Harry shrugged.

"As long as you also get the hangover."

Harry approached the bar. Madame Rosmerta was leaning against the other end, chatting to an elderly witch with an enormous hat. Harry didn't immediately beckon her, instead resting against a bar stool and admiring the antique broom that decorated the back wall.

"Excuse me," said a man, sliding onto the seat next to him, and Harry jumped. "Ah, sorry about that. I couldn't help but ask—are you Severus Snape?"

Harry turned to look at the man, heat flooding his face. He was a dapper-looking Wizard, perhaps Snape's age or a little younger, with a crooked nose and a warm, charming smile. 

"Er, yes," he said. _Famous Severus Snape,_ eh? Harry wasn't sure what to make of it.

"Oh, good! I thought it was you, but I didn't recognise you out of the classic swirling robes. It looks good on you, though."

The man accompanied this with a warm smile.

"Er, thank you," said Harry again, risking a slight smile in return.

"Sorry, I haven't even introduced myself. Everett Wiseacre, nice to meet you. I've followed your story in the papers."

"I shouldn't trust the papers too much," said Harry guardedly.

"Oh, I don't," said Everett, and patted him on the arm. Harry stared down at the man's hand, bemused. "Although I'd love to hear your take on it some time."

"Perhaps," said Harry, looking the man over again. He was attractive, with an open smile, and Harry was almost sad he was in Snape's body and not able to flirt. Although, could he? After all, if this were permanent, he'd have to come out all over again. Say he loved his mother like a sister? Urgh, and wasn't that a mad thought. Unless... would he start finding women more attractive? Where did he _keep_ his... gayness? 

Harry glanced at the man again, felt a blush rise, and then stared back at the scuffed red varnish of the bar. 

Everett was silent for a moment.

"Forgive me for asking," he said eventually, "But is it true? About... Lily Potter?"

Snape would probably hex the man at this point. Harry, however, was too flustered to say anything.

"It is complicated," he said in the end, and looked at Everett. The man looked distinctly _hopeful._

"I'm sorry, that was rude, I'll go now," he said. "But here, take my card. Give me a call if you're ever looking for company in Hogsmeade."

"Er, thanks," said Harry, taking the proffered card. _Everett Wiseacre, Private Goblin Liaison._

"What exactly is a private goblin liaison?" said Harry. Everett smiled. 

"I help the ridiculously rich negotiate their accounts with Gringotts. Mostly old families who have, ahem, historical problems with goblins. The occasional new money wanting to know what accounts to keep their gold in, how to negotiate rates, that sort of thing."

"Ah," said Harry. "Well, nice to meet you."

"You too," said Everett, and the look he gave Harry was _definitely_ flirtatious. "Not everyday you meet a war hero. Have a good afternoon."

And with that, Everett slid smoothly from the stool and back to his table. Madame Rosmerta, who had been watching the exchange with immense curiosity, gave him a grin and a wink.

"Firewhiskey and a lager, please," said Harry, trying to keep his poker face.

Drinks purchased, he headed back to Snape.

"You took your time," said Snape, as Harry slid into the seat, feeling the familiar pressure of entering a muffling charm as he did so.

"Well, I was busy being hit on by a handsome accountant," said Harry, who couldn't resist teasing Snape a little. Snape looked shocked, and then for some reason angry.

"Potter, your jokes today are—"

"Oh! No, really," said Harry hurriedly, passing him the firewhiskey and the business card. Snape stared at the card, then at Harry, then at Harry's borrowed body. He still looked annoyed, but honestly Harry was surprised he hadn't lost it completely. Usually when Snape perceived mockery, he met it with wild, spitting vitriol.

"I sincerely doubt he was _hitting on me_ ," he said. "You. Whoever."

"He definitely was, I'd bet ten galleons. And don't see why not," said Harry, grinning and smoothing his top. "You're a famous war hero in an extremely well-chosen outfit."

"How disturbing," said Snape quietly, still staring at the card. Then he threw back his Firewhiskey.

"How so?" said Harry, going cold. He realised something... he'd assumed Snape knew about him. Harry had assumed everyone knew he liked men, from the press coverage. Snape could even have noticed before Harry did, just like Hermione, he'd been inside his head after all. He _had_ to know, right? 

Harry had no idea how Snape would take it, to learn it now. Wizarding Britain, as a relatively small community, didn't have much diversity of thought when it came to sexuality, or anything else for that matter. Pureblood wizards were a little prudish about _discussing_ sex, not especially progressive about gender roles, and quite intense about marriage and magical children, but rather more... _fuzzy_ on the topic of gender itself. Which stood to reason when you could change your physical body at the wave of a wand. It wasn't perfect—stereotypes and binary thought existed, pureblood bigotry persisted still, and the good and the bad of Muggle culture trickled in just the same—but it wasn't a _scary_ thing, to be gay here. Dudley had called his enemies, and friends, slurs that wizards didn't even know. Holding hands in Diagon Alley would sometimes get stares, as though you were wearing an unusual hat, but not disgust or the threat of violence. 

According to Hermione, the attitude gap was because Muggle Britain had historically decried _sodomites_ and _witches_ to be much the same sort of evil, and as such any argument that went along the lines of 'unnatural' or 'morally deviant' was met with something between scornful amusement and personal offence. That, and the ancient invention of male pregnancy potion, making any objections on the grounds of limiting wizarding breeding irrelevant. Although male pregnancy among heterosexual couples remained rare, Hermione had observed, with a substantial eye-roll.

But Snape was not a pureblood, and who knew what sort of values he had picked up as a young man. Muggle culture in the sixties and seventies was a difficult time for gay rights, Harry knew.

And now Snape was staring at him, and his expression was... odd.

"Er, it occurs to me you might not know something about me," said Harry.

"The chances of that are slim, Potter," he said, and his face was... almost gentle. "Ah, which reminds me, there is something _you_ should know. Granger and Weasley are under the impression that you have a... crush... who resides in Hogsmeade. If we should succeed in swapping back, prepare to be grilled about it."

"Er," said Harry. "Okay. And how exactly did this come about?"

"They wanted to know why I wasn't eating properly. I let them guess, and this is what they came up with."

"But I am eating properly now," said Harry, surprised. Snape raised a disapproving eyebrow at the word _now_ , which made Harry want to hex it off at the sheer hypocrisy. "Why would they think I wasn't?"

"Because, Potter, you... fainted."

Harry raised his eyebrows. Snape was going pink; it was so much more obvious on Harry's face than it was on Snape's, a full-face blush rather than two high spots of red. He bet Snape hated that.

" _You_ fainted," corrected Harry, smirking.

" _Your_ body. Your undernourished, malfunctioning body." 

"You can talk. And I was perfectly well-nourished. I think it was _you_ swooning. From the shock."

Snape glared at him, a look of dark green fury. Seeing your own body from the outside was a complicated experience for your self-esteem, but Harry really did have amazing eyes.

Harry just smiled, running his fingers idly over a scratch mark on the table.

"Thanks for the heads-up," he said. "And... I'm glad you know."

It was Snape's turn to look surprised, and slightly confused.

"Because you've known for a couple of weeks, and you haven't thrown it at me," Harry explained. "You've not thrown anything at me, really. You told me you hated me for who I was born to and what I represented, but you've not said anything dreadful about _me_ , about my _self_ ,for the whole two weeks. And I like that."

Snape's surprise faded to a painful, hunted sort of expression.

"Potter," he said, low and quiet. "Don't. We can't be _friends_."

"Why not?"

"Because _I_ can't."

"What are you afraid of?" said Harry. "Losing your pride? That... it might hurt you? Snape, you can't live like that forever. I _get_ you, I think. We could be... God, friends isn't even the right word for it. Something important."

"You've forgotten things," said Snape, and his body was curling up like a dying spider. "You can't see my face, so you've forgotten who I am, Potter. I tortured you in my classroom, and I enjoyed it. I've sought your suffering for many, many years. We cannot be _friends_ , it would not work."

"And if I forgive you?" said Harry.

"You _can't_ forgive me, Potter. You forget who _killed your mother_."

Harry flinched. Snape was right of course; _he_ told the Dark Lord about the prophecy. And what's more, if it hadn't been Lily, if Voldemort had gone after some other family, Snape would be his servant still.

But he'd had time to think about it. And it was... just another fork in the road. A fork Harry could have followed as easily as Snape. If he hadn't met Ron and liked him, or Malfoy and hated him, he wouldn't necessarily have had the thought that he didn't want to be Sorted into Slytherin. He could have learned what it was to be magical from the children of Death Eaters, who would tell him he was special, superior, that he deserved power and that the Dursleys deserved to suffer, and that Dumbledore's meddling was responsible for his dreadful childhood. The wrong fork in the road, and how different things could have been.

It was not a _fair_ price to pay, his mother's death for Snape's redemption, but it was done, and he could not change it. And neither could Snape, though Harry knew he would have paid any price to do so.

And his mother, Harry thought, would be happy that she'd saved more than one person with her sacrifice.

"Yes, I haven't forgotten," said Harry, throat tight and aching. "It was Voldemort. You helped, I know, and the fact that you didn't know it was going to be her makes you no less terrible for doing so. But it _changed_ you. Your loss changed you. Dumbledore changed you. You are not that boy, not a loyal eighteen-year-old Death Eater, and the person that you are now is worthy. You deserve a chance to have a better life. To _be_ better. _Everyone_ deserves that chance, as long as they're willing to take it."

Snape stared at him, and it was a childlike stare, desperate and painful and raw and... and something else. Perhaps hope.

"Potter," said Snape, his voice cracking. "Potter... I _hate_ you."

Harry knew Snape meant something else. He wasn't sure what, exactly, but he knew it was important, and that Snape did not yet have the words to express it. Perhaps never would. 

It was enough that he felt it. Harry reached a hand out, and Snape stared at it like a cornered animal, wide-eyed and terrified as it came to rest over his. It was a surreal sensation, touching his own hand, seeing it happen but not feeling it the same way it looked. Snape did not move, frozen in place, staring at the point where their hands met. Harry squeezed his fingers, and then drew away.

Harry realised that this was the conversation he'd been hoping for. The reconciliation. It didn't look the way he'd imagined—it was messy, fragile, and not at all in the venue he'd thought—but it was a first step.

And yet, he realised, they were still trapped in the wrong bodies. Well, so much for that theory... perhaps they had to do something special? Both say, _I see you_ , or something?

Perhaps there was just more to it. Perhaps Snape had to accept his feelings. Perhaps... did Harry still have some baggage to sort through when it came to Snape? Was he really over all the terrible ways Snape treated him? Did he at least need an apology before he let it go?

Harry wasn't sure, but he was willing to be patient as he figured it out. It was not so bad, being Snape for a bit, and these last two weeks of teaching, quiet company and tentative teasing had been... nice.

Snape was staring at him still. It made his chest catch. Harry was reminded of Legilimency; he wished he could use it, but they already knew it didn't work anyway...

Harry looked away, hunting for something to break the tension. His eyes fell upon the wreath over the door. God, _Christmas_.

"Snape," he said, suddenly urgent. "Christmas."

Snape recovered smoothly from the moment of raw emotion. He raised an eyebrow; Harry hoped that he'd still be able to do that once they switched back.

"Yes," he said dryly. "Nearly."

"I'm supposed to go to the Burrow on Christmas day. I don't... I don't want to miss it."

The second eyebrow rose to join the first.

"What do you propose, Potter? That I go, and bring you as my _plus one_?"

Harry looked at him.

"You don't get it. _You're_ going to have to go anyway. I'm not sure Molly would take any excuse, and besides it would break her heart. You're going to have to go, and I... guess... "

It would be unutterably strange, for Harry Potter to ask Molly Weasley if Severus Snape could come to Christmas. But Harry couldn't bear it... couldn't bear to sit alone in the castle on Christmas night, knowing that a few hundred miles away, every person he loved in the world was sitting around the fire with Molly's cocoa.

"I guess you could ask if I could come along? We could blame it on the Mystery Project. Molly won't say no."

Snape looked very much like _he_ wanted to say no. His lip was curling in that way it did when he was about to say something dreadful to Harry. The expression was familiar, even on his borrowed face.

" _Fine_ ," he said instead. Harry stared back at him.

"Really?"

"Potter, don't push it."

"You really don't want to, do you?"

"Bathe in your secondhand adoration? Be surrounded by a bunch of loud and obnoxious ex-students? Have to explain why I've brought a _greasy git_ to the party? No, Potter, I do not."

Harry took a deep breath. He was angry at that, but also he wanted to take it back, to say Snape didn't have to. To sacrifice his joy. But that was a bad habit he was trying to break, and besides... it was big, for Snape to have agreed to this. It was important. It was a willing compromise, and if it went well perhaps Snape would learn to do it more often.

" _Thank you_ ," he said. "It means... a lot."

"You'll owe me," said Snape dismissively, but he could see a flicker of pleasure Snape could not quite repress. The man was an endless wonder; Harry wondered if he would ever have him completely figured out. 

"Also," said Harry, twirling a bit of Snape's hair in his fingers and giving him a sly smile. "You'll notice you're not actually a greasy git at the moment."

"Merlin help me, Potter, if you _twirl my hair_ in public ever again -"

Harry burst out laughing, and he couldn't bring himself to stop for a long time.

*

Severus retrieved and drank a second firewhiskey before Potter could finish his beer, and the world around him went pleasantly fuzzy. The candles haloed, the space outside their booth faded away, and the light sparkled wildly off the black eyes of the man in front of him. His own face, at once familiar and alien, laughing at him.

Laughing _with_ him. A little _at_ him, too, but mostly with him.

It was too good. It was intolerable. He did not want this. It was only something else to lose.

Yet here he was, regardless.

It was nearly time to go, and Severus wanted another drink. A whole bottle, in fact. If he was going to lose all the control he had, he was going to do it in style.

Potter, of course, threw a spanner into those works.

"Come on, time to wrangle the students," said Potter. "Don't forget the jacket."

Severus followed Potter to the door. He felt as though he was leaving this place as a different man than the one who had entered.

There was a bright flash of light as he stepped through the threshold, and Snape threw up an arm, startled. Was that it—had they changed back?

He blinked to clear his vision. In front of him, grinning broadly, was a squat man with a large camera, the flashbulb still glowing faintly.

"Say cheese, Mr Potter!" he said cheerfully and raised the camera again. Almost as quickly, Snape went for his wand. Potter caught him by the arm.

"Don't," he whispered in his ear, and the flash dazzled them again. "Be nice, or they'll just print something awful in revenge."

Severus stared back at him, horrified. Potter shrugged.

"Good afternoon, Arnold," he said, turning to the photographer. "I'm sure we'd just love to stay and pose, but now really isn't the best time. Mr Potter is officially working, and I do believe there is a strict injunction against disrupting Mr Potter whilst he is on Hogwarts business, is there not?"

"Have we met?" said Arnold, raising his eyebrows.

"No," said Harry, drawing himself up to his full height, raising the chin, looking down the nose. "And I hope, for your sake, that we shan't again. Merry Christmas."

The twirl was a bit much, thought Severus, but he'd give top marks for the striding away. Casting a withering look at Arnold, he followed.

"Oh, it was fun to be you for a bit there," said Potter, when they were far enough away. "How did I do?"

"A bit hammy," said Severus dryly.

And Potter just laughed. 

**Part Five**

Harry was not overly surprised to find an owl tapping at his bedroom window with a copy of the _Prophet_ that morning. He usually avoided the rag, but he had a contact at the _Prophet_ who would forward a copy before the main owls went out whenever he thought Harry needed to see it. Harry suspected a picture of him and Severus Snape might even make the front page, on a slow day.

The owl didn't seem thrilled to give up the paper to him, but an extra owl treat and a firm promise to hand it straight to Harry Potter when he woke up smoothed the bird's feathers enough to let him take it.

Harry got back into bed before he read it. There was a note from his contact wrapped around the bundle; Harry unfurled it, curious.

_Oh boy, Harry, I am so sorry about this one. I'd have stopped it if I'd known, but I don't work the Sunday edition. Good job Hattie gave me a heads-up or I would have found out with the post like everyone else! Owl me when you want to give your statement and I'll make sure the retraction is absolutely grovelling._

_Best Regards,_

_DC_

Harry stared at it, feeling a creeping horror. What had they written now? How badly could Arnold possibly have framed it? 

He unfurled the paper, and read: 

****

**HARRY POTTER'S CHOSEN ONE?**

****

**SEVERUS SNAPE, SPY, HERO OF HARRY'S HEART?**

Harry groaned.

Below the headline was the picture. In it, Harry Potter's eyes were flashing fury at the camera, his hand moving to his wand, but then there was Severus Snape beside him, looking tall and stark and serious in his long black cloak. And then Snape was leaning in, grabbing Harry's hand, standing _too close_ and whispering something in his ear, and the rage was visibly draining out of Harry and his face was turning closer to Snape's, and his eyes were closing gently... 

_Ah,_ thought Harry. There was something hot and uncomfortable in his stomach, something not entirely unpleasant, watching the moment of intimacy loop.

Still, the picture was nothing remarkable—just a moment in time, easily explained. Easily dismissed.

The article was, however, much worse than the picture. It was mostly wild speculation, of course—there wasn't even a mention of their very public and very strange visit to Gladrags, which was sloppy research even for the _Prophet_. But there was also an unflattering recap of Snape's history, peppered with plenty of such questions as, 'Severus Snape is known to be well-versed in the Dark Arts. Just how many of these dubious skills is he bringing to this relationship?' and, 'Potter was Snape's student only five years ago—is twenty years too much of an age gap for our fresh-faced Chosen One?' And worst of all, 'Has Severus Snape transferred his obsession with Lily Potter onto her green-eyed son?'

Snape was going to hate it. It was going to hurt him. _Fuck_ , he'd said he didn't want to hurt him, but here he was, bringing Snape the gift of public humiliation. Just by standing with him.

He shouldn't have been so _Snape_ to the photographer. Damn, he'd thought it was _funny._

Ron or Hermione would definitely firecall as soon as they saw this. He had to tell Snape now, before he got blindsided by... whatever reaction they were going to have to this.

Harry pulled on his dressing gown and entered the lounge cautiously. Snape was still asleep, just a messy black head in a large white quilt, and Harry could almost imagine that they were back in their own bodies. He didn't know exactly why it should hit him so much at that moment, but as he watched Snape sleep he _missed_ his body. He wanted to look at Snape, asleep on his brand new sofa bed, and just see _Snape_. 

"Good morning," he said, voice coming out gravelly and rough. Snape looked up at him, blinking sleepy green eyes.

Then he shot upright, clutching the duvet to him, scanning the room for threats. He cast a glare at the curtained window. It was still dark outside.

"What time is it, Potter?"

"Half past six," he said. "Sorry to wake you, but I had to show you something... urgent. Not that urgent," he said, when Snape scrabbled for his wand, "Just... something we're going to have to deal with."

Snape set his wand down again, finally awake enough to notice the Sunday _Prophet_ clutched in Harry's fist.

He promptly slumped back into his pillows.

"Another deeply insulting profile of Severus Snape, I presume?" he muttered, glaring at the ceiling. "Never fear, Potter, it's not my first go on the media merry-go-round."

"Ye-es..." said Harry awkwardly. "But also..."

Snape looked up at him.

"Give me that," he snapped. Harry held out the paper, reluctantly. Harry watched his own face go from suspicion, to horror, to disgust as he took in the headline.

"Ah," said Snape.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Oops."

" _Oops_?" 

"Yeah," said Harry, wishing his pyjamas had pockets to hide his twisting hands. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have gone all Snape on Arnold. He's put them up to this."

Snape stared at him for a moment. Harry was relieved to see he didn't appear to be insulted by the phrase 'gone all Snape.' Presumably Snape considered being threatening to photographers a noble use of his body.

"Potter, drop the martyrdom, the _Prophet_ would have run this anyway," he snapped after a moment. "Dear _Arnold_ didn't fake the picture, after all."

"Does look bad, doesn't it?" said Harry, with false cheer. There was something squirming in his chest. "Er, compromising, I mean. Not _bad_. Actually it's kind of a flattering shot, nice framing, good light... and you were totally right about the coat, so thanks. Shame he didn't get the twirl, eh?"

Harry was aware he was babbling. But he didn't want Snape to think he found the idea of them being pictured together horrible. _Why_ didn't he want that? Okay, yes, so Snape and Harry were tentatively friends, but if someone had insinuated he and, say, _Ron_ were together in the paper, they'd not be dancing around the issue trying not to insult each other. They'd be laughing, and disgusted, and then laughing again.

Harry didn't want to hurt Snape, that was all. Ron could occasionally have a moment of insecurity, but his issues paled when compared to Snape's self-esteem. He didn't want Snape to think that Harry thought him... thought him what? Unattractive? Unsuitable?

Wasn't that exactly what he was, though?

Snape was gazing at him, confused and suspicious. Harry shrugged.

"So anyway, when Ron and Hermione read this they'll firecall me immediately to make sure I'm not about to burn down the _Daily Prophet_ offices or something. They've had to talk me down from cursing reporters in the face before, and they know I go especially mad over—" _articles about you,_ "trash talk with my name next to it. But I've had a handle on it for a while now, don't worry, you—don't have to make a big show of being annoyed or horrified. Just tell them the facts. Shrug it off."

Snape gave him a calculating look.

"So a well-placed letter-hex to an intrusive photographer would not be out of character for you, Potter?" he said, with a slow smirk. "Noted."

"Don't," said Harry, "Besides, they'd just accuse you. Me. Er, Severus Snape."

Snape scowled.

"Fine. Call for tea, Potter. No strategy without caffeine."

Snape put the bed away while Harry spoke to the house-elf, and they both sat on the freshly-assembled sofa with the _Prophet_ between them. Harry's eyes kept being drawn to the photo, looping forever, a moment of snowy, Christmas-themed intimacy. It looked... 

It looked like something he wanted.

"You know," said Harry lightly, pushing the absurd idea away. "I've seen some pretty weird things about me in the paper, but this is definitely worthy of a special mention."

"You're taking it well," said Snape.

"So are you."

"Well, Potter, as the _Prophet_ so astutely observes, I have _landed on my feet_ and, what was it? _Ensnared the Wizarding world's most eligible bachelor._ "

Harry cringed. Snape did not look angry or mean, though. He just looked... tense.

"Bad news, Snape," he said, trying for a jocular tone. "You've actually _ensnared_ a slightly unstable secondary school teacher with weird baggage."

Snape stared at him. Looked like he wanted to say something. Closed his mouth tightly. 

Harry swallowed.

"So we'll have to talk to McGonagall in a bit," he said. "I don't think she'll be too troubled, we've talked about how we'd handle a media drama before. The kids'll talk, but honestly they talk anyway, I heard a rumour I was dating Flitwick once. Not that there's anything wrong with that, we should all be so lucky as to bag a Flitwick."

Snape snorted.

"Might be the right moment to sort out more sensible lodgings..." said Harry reluctantly. "I hope they have somewhere on this floor. I don't like it, but—"

They were interrupted by the fire flaring green. Harry glanced at his watch—ten to seven, pretty unusual for Ron and Hermione on a Sunday, yet there was Hermione's face, looking a little sickly in the pale green firelight, forehead crinkled.

And Harry was still wearing his Gryffindor dressing gown. Well, that wasn't going to look weird at _all_.

Snape was wearing blue striped flannel, and abruptly did not look happy about it. Harry supposed it wasn't uncomfortable chatting in your pyjamas when you were only seeing yourself, but rather different to be caught in them the day after your sex scandal broke.

Hermione looked surprised to see Harry awake, and then utterly astonished to see Snape sitting casually next to him in Harry's scarlet dressing gown. 

"Er," she said, very quietly. "Can we... um... can we come through, Harry?"

Still sleepy, Harry nearly responded, but caught himself. Snape looked at Harry, and said,

"Perhaps a moment to get dressed."

"Yes that may be wise," said Hermione, extremely quietly, carefully not looking at Harry-in-Snape. Her eyes were like saucers, bright green in the Floo light. She pulled her head back, vanishing with a pop.

Harry couldn't help it. He laughed.

"Not funny, Potter," said Snape. "Take that dreadful thing off."

"Good job it's on," said Harry, snickering. "Otherwise Hermione would have had an eyeful of the Chudley Cannons boxers she bought me last Christmas."

Snape looked appropriately horrified. Harry clawed himself to standing, still laughing though it hurt his throat, and pulled himself into the bedroom. He picked up yesterday's grey jeans and jumper from the chair and pulled them on hurriedly, returning to the front room without worrying about knocking—it was his body he'd see, after all—to see Snape also dressed in yesterday's chenille and denim, body arranged on the sofa as casually as he could manage, hiding slightly behind a fresh cup of tea.

Harry sat on the armchair. A few minutes later, the fireplace flared, and then Hermione stepped out of the fire. She was still sleep-rumpled, in blue cotton trousers tucked into her boots and a long, very fluffy blue cardigan. Harry surged with affection at the sight. Ron followed a moment after, wearing a lurid Chudley Cannons jumper that made everything else in the room look muted.

"Er," said Ron awkwardly. "Morning, Snape."

"Good Morning, Mr Weasley," said Harry, trying his hardest not to smile at them. "Miss Granger. I gather you've seen the newspaper this morning." 

Ron and Hermione looked anxiously at each other, then back to the man they thought was Harry.

"Yes," said Ron slowly. "Quite the... surprise. We didn't even know you were in the country. Professor."

"He's not been a professor for a while," said Snape-in-Harry. "And yes, I should have told you. Snape has been staying here while we work on... a small problem together. A problem that I... can't tell you about."

Hermione's eyes immediately narrowed.

"What _kind_ of problem?" she said. Harry sighed.

"Well, he can't tell you, can he?" he said. "Nothing life-threatening, I assure you."

Harry was surprised at the strength of the glare he got from Hermione.

"You... are working on a problem... with Snape," said Ron slowly. "And he's staying here. In your rooms. In your... bedroom?"

"Of course," said Snape. He seemed to be trying to repress a smirk.

" _Potter_ ," protested Harry, because that was all he could do to prevent Snape pursuing a wind-up.

"Because he's a guest," added Snape, and he was definitely smirking now. "I sleep on the sofa bed." He patted the new furniture.

"Right," said Ron, looking relieved. "Right, yes. Sorry. After that picture... and when Hermione said Snape was wearing your dressing gown... "

"I assure you, it was not my choice," said Harry in a dark tone, warming to his character.

"Indeed," agreed Snape, with an amused glance at him. "Snape had to come here in somewhat of a hurry. He brought very little. That's actually why we were in Hogsmeade yesterday—buying supplies."

"And you've obviously bought new clothes too," said Hermione. "The jumper's really nice."

"Yeah, mate, you look much better in clothes that fit."

"Thanks," said Snape warily. "Please, sit down a minute. Help yourself to tea."

Hermione and Ron took a seat either side of Snape. Harry could _see_ Snape trying to look like their casual proximity didn't bother him.

"So," said Hermione, when they'd all poured out tea from the pot. "The article. And the, um, photo."

"Quite some spin, for a photograph of me attempting to prevent Potter from murdering an invasive photographer," said Harry.

"Yes, well, you probably shouldn't have _gone all Snape_ on him," said Snape, which stung, but Snape was smirking again.

"I did no such thing," said Harry, squaring his shoulders in a dramatic fashion. " _Mr Potter_."

Snape looked like he might even be holding back a laugh at this point. Harry's heart leapt at the sight, even if the joke was somewhat at the expense of his friends.

"You're taking it well," said Ron, and he was looking at Snape-in-Harry but his eyes flicked almost imperceptibly towards Harry-in-Snape, as if he wanted to ask both of them.

Snape shrugged.

"Bit of a shock. But it's done now."

"And you're not planning to... storm down to the _Daily Prophet_ and bash some heads?" said Hermione doubtfully.

"No," said Snape.

"I talked him out of it," said Harry.

"Although you did suggest a small anonymous post-hex," said Snape.

"Well, it's the Slytherin way," agreed Harry. Snape made a kind of huffing noise. Harry wondered if he could officially count that as making Snape laugh.

"Right..." said Hermione, who was looking between them with a deeply troubled expression. Ron looked... bemused. 

"Harry," said Hermione quietly. "Do you think I could have a quick chat with you... alone?"

"Er," said Snape, which was a very Harry thing to say, but that didn't seem to be deliberate on Snape's part. "Yes, of course. Would you... excuse us?"

Snape looked slightly panicked. Harry nodded at him, though his amusement had withered immediately. What on earth could Hermione want to talk to him about? Did she think Snape had done something to him? Harry hadn't realised that Hermione was still so suspicious of Snape; she'd been supportive enough during the trial.

Harry took his tea into the bedroom and shut the door behind him. Then he leant against the door and cast an eavesdropping charm.

"Harry," Hermione was saying quietly. "Are you... alright?"

"Yes," said Snape slowly. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well," said Hermione, "It's just odd. Snape staying with you. This secret project. Shopping in Hogsmeade. Your new clothes..."

"Hermione," said Snape, still calm and measured. "I do hope you're not worried about me because I bought new clothes, because I think we can all agree it was overdue."

"Too right," said Ron, which Harry thought was a bit rich from anyone wearing that jumper.

"No, not the clothes then, just the uncharacteristic behaviour. Are you feeling okay?"

"Perfectly fine," said Snape. "You've nothing to worry about. As soon as me and Snape finish our project—"

" _What_ project?" said Ron.

"I really would be absolutely delighted to tell you," said Snape dryly. "But I _can't._ "

"Has Snape made you... commit to something?"

"It's not an Unbreakable Vow, is it?"

"Why would you think that?" said Snape, sounding genuinely baffled about where this conversation was heading.

"Well," said Hermione, using her 'Harry might explode if I say this' voice, "It's not a completely wild idea... I mean, you've always been a bit... mad... when it comes to Snape."

"Because we hate each other," said Snape flatly.

"You seemed quite pally a minute go," said Ron. 

"Alright," he agreed. "Because we _used_ to hate each other. I'll admit there's been some progress on that front."

"He was wearing your dressing gown like it was no big deal."

"Well, yes. Snape wears bedclothes. A fact for which we should all be grateful."

A tense silence.

"The thing is," said Hermione gently, "You're a bit of a pushover when it comes to Snape, Harry. You've had a bee in your bonnet about him since the Shrieking Shack. I understand why, I get that you feel bad for leaving him to die and I know that his actions saved us all, but the fact remains that he's mean-spirited, self-serving and a practiced liar, and if he ever thought he had an _in_ with you... well, I don't know what he'd do with it _._ "

Snape didn't say anything. Harry wondered what he made of Hermione's assessment of Snape's character. Harry knew what _he_ made of it; he knew it was utterly absurd. Snape was, Harry would agree, mean-spirited, though less so now than he had been. But as far as Harry could tell Snape's _ambitions_ were about as lofty as the average Hufflepuff's. He lived in a tiny caravan, he read books all day, and wallowed in his ancient shame. He _wanted_ things, like recognition, admiration, approval, but he seemed more inclined to sabotage his chances than manipulate his way to them. Snape's ambition had been broken years ago, when it led to Lily's death.

And even before that Harry was not at all convinced Snape was the pinnacle of Slytherin ambition. Cunning, perhaps, but not ambition. It seemed to Harry what had always motivated Snape to do what he did—and Harry knew _exactly_ why—was a simple craving for _love_. Dumbledore had said it himself; they Sorted too soon.

"I don't think that's true," said Snape eventually. Harry wondered which bit he meant.

"Yes," said Hermione, "I know. Because you've got a _thing_ about him. Are you sure he isn't... manipulating you somehow?"

"I can say with confidence, Hermione, that Severus Snape wouldn't know where to start in manipulating me. I'm stubborn as hell and mad as a box of chocolate frogs."

Ron chuckled at this. Harry, on the other side of the door, smiled.

"He's got a point, Hermione," said Ron.

"And what is it you think Snape is trying to get out of me, exactly?" said Snape.

"I'm not sure..." said Hermione. Harry could hear the lie in her voice. "Could just be the _cachet o_ f being associated with you."

"Ah yes, because the _Daily Prophet_ has showered Snape in glory for his association with me," said Snape dryly.

"Alright, not the best plan," said Hermione. "But what if this is about... your mother."

Snape was deathly silent. Harry began to think of ways to try and rescue Snape, something that wouldn't make it look like Snape was trying to intervene in the conversation. He wasn't sure what Hermione was driving at.

"You think..." said Snape, because he was far smarter than Harry, "That the _Prophet_ has it right. That I—that he—that Snape has _transferred his obsession_."

"Well," said Hermione. "You've got to agree, he's got form. I mean, carrying a torch for someone who—who died a long time ago, and who never reciprocated his feelings, or even _liked_ him in the end... I know you have it in your head that it's romantic, but that's not what healthy love looks like, Harry. And the way he looks in that picture... standing so close..."

Harry swallowed. _That was_ me _, Hermione, you idiot, if you're going to accuse anyone of having a romantic agenda, accuse_ me!

He stared out at the room beyond, shocked by the thought. He knew he liked Snape more than he'd expected. He knew that he was having strange, intense dreams. But he couldn't have any sort of _feelings_ for Snape... Snape loved his mother. Snape was only just willing to admit he could even tolerate him. Snape had taught him, and tormented him, for six miserable teenage years. _Liking_ Snape would be the worst sort of masochism. He _couldn't._

"You're assuming a lot," said Snape.

"Am I?" said Hermione.

"Yes," said Snape, very quietly. Harry found himself holding his breath, wondering what Snape meant by that. "You're assuming a lot about how he felt. How he feels now."

"And you know him better, do you?"

"No," said Snape, tone frustrated, because of course he knew better. Harry wanted to laugh, albeit bitterly.

"But you want to find out," said Hermione. "Because... you want to know more about your mother."

"That sounds reasonable to me," said Snape. Harry sighed. That wasn't it, wasn't at _all_ it. He wondered about his parents, certainly, but it wasn't the painful ache it used to be. He'd spoken to them, after all, felt their love, and he had people he could ask about them if he needed to.

"Oh, Harry," said Hermione. "It _is_ reasonable. Just... be careful, alright? There are a lot of feelings to hurt here. And... and I don't trust him."

"I won't pretend that he's not a bitter, twisted and deeply pathetic man," said Snape. "But he's... trying. To be better."

Harry's heart leapt at those words, a bright blooming burst of delight... that vanished almost immediately under the weight of realisation.

Harry had come to care for Snape's good opinion more than was healthy or sane. Harry wanted to spend time with him, _itched_ to be around him. Harry couldn't stand the idea of losing him when the swap ended. Harry... wanted to be Snape's reason to try. And Harry liked himself around him; Snape challenged him, and Snape needed him, and it felt good to be challenged and good to be needed and... 

And it was all so utterly doomed.

"Right, this is all beside the point," said Ron. "Harry, you're a big boy now, and if you want to spend your free time figuring out if Snape's got a heart of gold under all the layers of wanker then go ahead, rather you than me. And if you say this super secret project is nothing to worry about, fine, you know where we are if you need us. But what are we going to do about the bloody _Prophet_?"

"Same as usual?" said Snape smoothly, as though he had any idea what that was.

"What, ignore it? I think it might actually merit a response for once, Harry."

"Does the _Daily Prophet_ deserve a second of our time? The article is nothing, just a string of dubious questions. No one who knows us will believe a word of it. In a week or so I'll laugh about it in some _Witch Weekly_ fluff piece, the _Prophet_ will look like the hacks they are, and the whole thing will be forgotten before the new year."

"Alright," said Hermione. "That... makes sense."

"We've dealt with worse from the _Prophet_ ," said Ron.

"We have?" said Snape doubtfully.

"Harry, the _Daily Prophet_ called you a mentally infirm liar and a terrible person for a _solid three years_ , and only _one_ of those years was it controlled by old Voldypoo. This is a Sunday morning puff piece. Yeah, it's weird as all hell, and we're going to get a lot of questions, but we can handle it."

"Alright," said Hermione, "Then that's settled. And I'm glad to see you're okay. You're being very calm and mature about all this, Harry."

"I'm a saint," said Snape dryly. Harry snorted.

"Alright, well, great," said Ron, a laugh in his voice. "I'm going to drag Hermione back to bed now and we'll forget the whole thing. Seven a.m. on a Sunday should not be a real time, and I never want to see it again. Go on, woman, homeward, I'm sure Harry's got stuff to do. See you on Christmas day? Unless you're free for a drink before then?"

"I'll let you know," said Snape. "Thanks for coming."

"Always," said Hermione.

Harry heard the first whoosh of the Floo. There was a slight pause.

"Harry, mate," said Ron quietly, "I didn't want to say this in front of 'Mione because I didn't want to egg her on, but I've got to ask. You're not... into him, are you, Harry?"

" _What_?" said Snape.

"Yeah, mad, sorry, it's just I think 'Mione sees what she wants to see in that picture, evil old Snape being predatory, but I can't help but think that _you_ look kind of... well... into it."

"Um," said Snape.

"And another thing," Ron continued quickly, "Ginny saw the _Prophet_ first, she gets an early copy to read the sports section before practice. She firecalled us and I spoke to her while Hermione was asleep. And _she_ said," Ron put on a passable impression of his sister, "'I'm not even that surprised, he's got a thing about Snape, he was absolutely wild during the trial and he used to dream about the man nearly every night.'"

Snape didn't say anything for a long moment. Harry found himself... relieved, that Snape wasn't denying it to Ron. Because Harry _did_ have a mad thing about Snape, and the madness had taken a distinct and unexpected turn of late... and he didn't want the weight of that secret. He didn't want to worry about it, to fear its discovery. He wanted to tell Ron, to ask Ron what was _wrong_ with him, to hear Hermione's elaborate theories about older men and missing parent figures or some such, to make everything normal until the whole thing went away.

Or he wanted to hear them tell him that he should just go for it, fling himself at Snape like a wave against a stony cliff. Which, of course, they would never do.

"You're insane," said Snape eventually.

"Am I?" said Ron. "Fair enough. But mate, seriously, if you need to talk to me, I am here. Because I am not going to be a dick about it—sometimes crushes are weird, I had some pretty intense dreams about McGonagall for a _whole term_ in third year—but having a thing for _Snape_ , my friend, is a _doomed voyage_."

Ron didn't linger after that pronouncement. There was a _whoosh,_ and then the man was gone.

Harry contemplated retreating back to bed for the rest of the day.

*

Severus Snape was absolutely sick of being Harry bloody Potter. He was exhausted, confused, and emotionally raw, and it was not even eight in the morning.

Potter's friends were wrong, of course. Potter may have more of a prurient interest in Severus than he'd realised, but there was absolutely no chance that Potter harboured anything in the way of a _crush._ He'd be traumatised by the very idea. Perhaps he'd heard them—perhaps that was why he was taking his time emerging from the bedroom. That, or Granger's dire proclamations about Severus's character. Would he believe her? Would he think Severus had some sort of agenda?

Severus did have an agenda, and that agenda was terribly mundane. He wanted a small, quiet life, back in his caravan, where all the pain and suffering of the first forty years of his life could be safely ignored.

And yet, despite the complete absence of logic, he wanted... Harry Potter. That much, it was becoming pointless to deny. As Weasley had said, he was... _into it_. It was right there on the front page of the _Prophet_. 

_A doomed voyage._

Severus was beginning to wonder if Potter had chosen not to eavesdrop, and was unaware that the conversation ended. 

"Potter," he said loudly.

A moment's pause, then Potter opened the door.

"Am I to assume you heard that, or do I have to recount it all again?"

"I heard," said Harry quietly. Severus stared at him, and longed for this accursed swap to end. To see Potter standing there instead of himself, see that soft, troubled gaze in green and not black.

"Are you okay?" said Harry, which was not the follow-up question he'd expected.

"Yes, Potter, fine," said Severus heavily, slumping back onto the sofa and closing his eyes. Potter crossed to the bell-pull to order some fresh tea. A second teapot appeared in an instant, and Harry poured them each a cup.

"I can't lie," said Potter, "I _have_ had a bit of a... _thing_ about you."

"Potter," said Severus, warningly. Potter didn't know what he was saying; how it made hope flare through veins before his rational mind could intervene.

"It's probably terribly unhealthy," continued Potter blithely. "But... it's always just driven me up the _wall_ that you were so horrible to me. It was just so unfair, I hadn't done anything, I didn't even know who you were and there seemed to be nothing I could do to prove to you that I didn't deserve it, nothing I could say, no way I could act... And then when I found out why, about my father and about my mother, I thought... well, Snape's excuse to hate me _is_ unfair, and although I _understand_ it, I'm not going to let him get away with it. I became kind of obsessed with it, about how I was going to get you to apologise, how we were going to connect, bond over—over Lily, or just over the pain of the war... I imagined so many different scenarios, so many ways to fix this."

"It makes sense," said Severus dully. "I traumatised you as an eleven-year-old boy. Why wouldn't you fixate on setting me to rights?" 

Potter stared at him.

"Well, yes," he said. "Um. Exactly. You do realise you've never _at any point before this_ shown even the slightest indication that you're sorry about that?"

Severus snorted.

"The problem is, Potter, that even if I had,"— _realised you were utterly fucking perfect, realised you were everything any sane man could ever hope to be around—_ "been willing to acknowledge that I was unfair to you, I would not have been able to _do_ anything about it. I don't expect you to be able to comprehend how difficult it is to be a spy when the enemy can _see inside your head_. I have had the strongest possible motivations to keep not just my behaviour, but my _opinion_ intact."

 _Didn't work, though, did it,_ thought Severus. Even back then, his soul had known it was a lie... 

"I appreciate that," said Harry coolly. "Which is why I'm making an effort at all. But you do realise the war is _over_ , right?"

"What do you want me to _do_ , Potter," said Severus, and it came out angry and snarling, though inside him was nothing but a whirl of shame. " _Apologise?_ "

"YES!" shouted Potter, clawing at the side of his head with one hand. "Obviously, yes!"

Severus snorted. Apologies, empty useless _words_ , did Potter really think that would make a difference?

"And that will make it all better, will it? Everything will be sunshine and roses if I utter a two-word sentence?"

"No," said Potter, staring at him like he were completely mad, "But it helps! Where exactly were you, Snape, when they did the lesson on saying sorry when you do something wrong? I mean, I'm not a master of it or anything myself, but I'm at least aware of the principle!"

"Oh, I learned it, Potter. I learned all about it. Tell me, Potter, did the _Dursleys_ ever apologise to you?"

Harry looked startled at this apparent change of tack.

"No, of course not. Dudley's come close a few times, now he's got a bit older and realised just how shitty his parents actually were... to him as well as to me. But they think they did right, and if they ever had to question it their tiny minds would cave in. _You_ , however, are smarter than that."

"Well, Potter, let me tell you how apologies went in _my_ family." Severus was still snarling, and he knew it was ridiculous, but anger was the only way he knew to get this out. "' _Oh, I'm sorry, Eileen, sweetheart, it won't happen again, here, let me help you clean up. I'm sorry, Leelee, you're too good for me, you should kick me out, but please don't leave me, I need you. I'm sorry, but if you could just stop making me so_ angry _, if you could just stop leaving your fucking shoes in the corridor I wouldn't have to lose it like this, how many times have I fucking said it?'_

"Tobias Snape didn't even get to the end of a _sentence_ before he was going back on his remorse, Potter, so forgive me if I doubt the significance a little."

Harry looked at him for a long time, and Severus waited for his face to crumple. Waited for his own face to show him Potter's unwelcome pity.

" _He_ didn't mean it," said Potter quietly.

" _He_ believed he did, Potter. Sometimes he'd even be better. For a week. A day."

"Alright," said Harry. He looked calm now, and slightly sad. "No apologies, then."

Severus stared at him. No, no, _no,_ this was worse, this was far worse—Potter, throwing his feelings down at the feet of Severus's issues, letting himself be trampled— _NO,_ he would not do it, even if he had to be alone and miserable for the rest of his life, even if he had to throw himself off the Astronomy Tower—

"No, what I have in mind is way harder," said Harry, and his lips twitched a little at the corners. "I'm going to hold you to what you said. About trying to be better."

Severus was emptied of all thought. There was nothing inside him, nothing but a swirling mix of fear and half-formed doubts and pathetic, swirling _hope._

"Drink your tea," said Harry, and Severus was forcibly reminded of Dumbledore. Potter, sitting calmly opposite him in a borrowed body, drinking from a china cup as though the world were not a shattered mess around them. 

Potter, though still young, still a little self-conscious, was going to become a great man. And they had always been his weakness, hadn't they?

Severus did as he was told.

*

By silent agreement, Harry and Snape skipped breakfast in the Great Hall and instead went out to the Quidditch pitch. They required extra-strength warming charms today, but at least the sky was bright and clear, an endless expanse of winter blue. Harry didn't stick to the pitch today, flying high above the castle, weaving in and out of towers and over the mishmash of rooftops. He set down in a secluded nook of loose tiles and roof moss, and after a moment Snape followed him, eyebrows raised. Harry shrugged, sat down against the tiles that were sun-warmed despite the winter air, and closed his eyes.

Snape sat down next to him. Harry kept his eyes closed. Here, behind his eyelids, he could pretend as though everything was okay. Everything was normal; a perfect winter Sunday. If he concentrated, he could imagine that the warmth beside him was Snape's long body and not his own.

But that didn't qualify as normal at all, did it?

Eventually, again in silence, they both returned to the castle. A shower and change, then McGonagall's office was first on the list. McGonagall agreed that yes, naturally no-one would believe the article, and no, it needn't impact on Harry's lessons in any way, but she kept looking between them with pursed lips, taking in the way the two men had unconsciously angled themselves towards each other, eyeing Harry-in-Snape's uncharacteristic levels of personal grooming.

They followed their meeting with lunch in the Great Hall. Harry did a lot of eyebrow raising and snorting at the questions he received from the other staff members, and Snape did his best to laugh it off. 

Sunday afternoon was occupied by a trip to the library for a new batch of books. Madam Pince eyed them the whole time, as if they might sneak into the stacks for a snog if she dropped her guard. On the way back, two third year girls congratulated them, blushing and beaming. The majority of the students, it seemed, were much less shocked than Harry would have anticipated, and no-one was particularly buying the story about Snape's ulterior motives. Especially, Harry suspected, after the tone of their lessons together. 

Snape was surprisingly nice about letting the girls down gently.

By dinnertime, the questions at the staff table had turned to gentle ribbing. Snape spent most of the meal at the mercy of Harry's strong blush reflex, and clearly annoyed about it; Harry, whilst similarly flushed, couldn't help but quip back at his colleagues.

"Potter should be so lucky," said Harry, when Slughorn asked if he should be buying a hat for the wedding, and Snape almost suffocated on his mashed potato.

McGonagall, Harry noticed, did not participate, and kept eyeing them both with a strange expression.

Harry's rooms were a welcome retreat that evening.

"Patronuses," said Harry, when they were finally both alone, curled in their separate chairs by the fire.

"What?" said Snape, drawn out of his firelit reverie.

"Patronuses," said Harry. "It's the last week before Christmas break and we're the centre of all the gossip. There's no point trying to teach the kids anything new or get them to concentrate on reading. It can be Patronus week for everyone."

"Potter," said Snape slowly, "First year students are not going to be able to conjure Patronuses."

"No," agreed Harry, "But they'd love a demonstration. And I had pretty good luck with third years in the DA, though obviously it took everyone more than a lesson. The fourth, fifth and sixth years have all at had lessons on it, and the seventh years are well-practiced by now. They would probably demo for the little ones if you asked."

Snape gave him a dubious look. Then his expression changed.

"Potter," he said, "I have no idea what will happen if I attempt to conjure a Patronus."

Harry looked at him with a tilted head. It was funny, how things became normal; he was almost used to the sight of Snape in his body, the way he looked like him and yet not, as though he were some kind of separate entity from Harry and Snape both.

"Seems worth a try," he said eventually, with a grin.

Snape drew his wand, or rather Harry's wand, and closed his eyes. Harry watched him, watched a faint smile linger on his lips as he said the incantation, watched and wondered with all his heart what Snape was thinking about.

A vast, bright whiteness burst from Harry's wand, a form that Harry found familiar. He thought it was going to be the stag, absolutely sure for a moment, but then the doe formed itself, stumbling a little before finding her feet and gambolling about Potter's suddenly too-small living room.

"Interesting," said Harry, and he felt slightly breathless. The doe turned to him, watching him warily; Harry reached out a hand, knowing he would only feel a kind of warm, tingling air but wanting, wanting so much, to feel the connection...

Harry stroked the doe. The doe nuzzled his hand, and then slowly faded.

Harry looked up. Snape was watching him, a painful expression on his face.

 _Lily_ , thought Harry. Snape thought about Lily, of course. The embodiment of Snape's soul, here in front of him, a testament to the enduring love that Snape held for Harry's mother. One of the many reasons why Harry's intense and apparently unavoidable feelings for Snape were utterly doomed.

He was going to ask him. Harry was going to ask him, soon, to talk about his mother.

But not today.

"I think I'm going to turn in," said Harry. "Goodnight, Snape."

*

Severus stared after Potter, something hopeless churning inside him. Severus knew what Potter had seen. He had seen what Dumbledore had seen, on that wretched night when Snape had learned the truth about his plans for Potter.

 _"For HIM?"_ he'd said. As if the idea of caring for Potter were ludicrous. As if he still thought of Potter the way he had in Potter's first year.

A doe, it was still a doe, and only Severus knew that it had changed. He didn't know when, didn't want to know—longer than was decent, that was for sure. He'd been so good at lying to himself, he hadn't even had to try to lie to Dumbledore. Spying, always spying, he didn't even know what was true any more... 

If Potter had cared to cast his own Patronus... if he'd stayed for just a moment to see the two of them together, perhaps he would have noticed the connection.

Severus sighed. Lily was, and always would be, a part of him. Deep in his core, she was his model for everything that was right about a person. He loved her, nothing so mundane as romantically, nothing so trite as like a sister, he loved her like the sun in a blue sky. But there was always a gap between them, something that would never have been bridged even in another life, even if they had stayed the best of friends until they both died old in their beds. It was not just James Potter; it was not just Severus's terrible choices, his possessiveness, his toxicity. It was the fact that she had always, _always_ known love. Mr and Mrs Evans had loved their youngest completely, wholly, as parents should. Lily lived in a world of plenty, and gave her love like someone who knew that love was infinite. She was fundamentally incapable of understanding what it was like to live in a home where both money and love were in short supply, didn't know what it was like to feel hungry in more ways than you could count.

But Potter understood that. He understood it, and rose above it, burst out from it, a better man for having felt that lack. His Patronus should have been a phoenix... and if it had been, then the creature bursting out from Snape's wand tonight would have been a phoenix too.

**Part Six**

Potter had been right about Patronus charms, of course. The NEWT students were delighted to demonstrate their skills to the first, second and third years, and the fourth and fifth years were thrilled to take a real crack at something so advanced. The sixth and seventh years spent the lesson sitting amongst the ethereal manifestations of their purest joy, talking giddily about their Christmas plans. Much to his surprise, no-one even seemed to notice that he was not casting his own charm.

For the most part, the classes went smoothly, Severus explaining the theory and then leaving the students to it. Occasionally, he offered a tip or critique, but mostly he just sat, watching the soft flare of each new light, the glitter and shine of so many happy thoughts.

Severus took note of some things, however. Rowan Jones, looking bored and empty, untouched by the beauty of a seventh-year girl's adorable rabbit Patronus. Celestia Avery, mouth twisting bitterly as she tried produce something, _anything_ from her wand. Luke Hampton-Smith, confused and bleak as his usual eagle failed to appear. He asked around that week, carefully; Hampton-Smith's misery was a break-up, upsetting for him but ultimately transitory, but Celestia Avery's marks had been weaker and her attitude more distant over the course of the term. Slughorn thanked him for the information, but Potter agreed with him that evening that Slughorn was rather more interested in a quiet life than student care, and that it might warrant a follow-up. Rowan Jones was already on Flitwick's radar, as it turned out his behaviour in most classes was either sullen or actively disruptive. Problems at home, of course. Severus tried not to let the thought wrap a cold hand around his heart; Flitwick would do his best for the boy. He was an excellent and creative Head of House.

Severus couldn't help but feel a terrible sense of the teacher he might have been. While Potter might have found him a savage and wildly unreasonable Professor, Snape had largely kept his cool in classes that did not involve him. He'd not had much time for the students, particularly stupid ones, but he'd looked after the Slytherins as best he could, including trying to offset Albus bloody Dumbledore's shameless Gryffindor bias. But to be _this_ , a man listened to and respected, a man the students turned to with hopeful eyes when they struggled, who didn't flinch or run when they saw him in the corridor...

Severus threw the thought into the acrid flames of his regrets.

Inevitably, he found himself thinking of his own happy memory. Eleven years old, his first week at Hogwarts. The first chance he and Lily had found to spend some time together after the Sorting, September sunshine on the lake. Lily in a halo of shining hair, talking about her week in a giddy rush, and Severus just staring at her and wondering if this were _it_. If this were the moment all the dark and terrible things were banished, if this was the day when life became good.

His younger self hadn't known the half of it. 

But after five days surrounded by the manifest happiness of nearly every student in Hogwarts, Severus was beginning to consider that it was simply a case of not knowing how to accept the good things that came. He'd pushed Lily away. He'd kept the counsel of housemates whose malice he knew, and shunned anyone with good intentions as a liar. Then later he kept no counsel at all, save Dumbledore's guarded offerings, and he'd held himself distant from the students. By the time he was supposed to be a mentor to Draco, he had no idea where to start, and instead found himself playing hide-and-seek games with a boy who knew perfectly well that Severus only buttered him up in class to play politics.

For the first time in a long time, Severus thought he might be able to fix those mistakes. For the first time in a long time, he felt as though he could stare into himself without feeling consumed by the smouldering furnace of his suffering. As though he could begin to sort through the soot and ash of forty years of bad decisions, and start to learn.

Perhaps, as Potter had said, it was time to _get over himself._

*

Harry felt as though he was in some kind of hopeless purgatory.

Snape was still not a man to smile at much, but he was beginning to look something frighteningly close to happy. He was relaxed, agreeable even, the effects of teaching the Patronus charm lingering on him like a blanket of second-hand contentment. Harry was happy for him—he couldn't think of a man who deserved a respite from inner turmoil as much as Severus Snape did—but in the nights Harry still ached and in the days he found himself hanging on Snape's words, delighted by his snark, startled by his sharp mind, thrilled by every gesture that made his own familiar body look more _Snapeish_. He thought about owling Ron, trying to confess this mad, unwelcome feeling, but he couldn't find a way to explain it without talking about the body swap.

He was horrified at himself. Harry had just been beginning to feel like his life were on track—just beginning to wonder about finding someone to share it with—and now his days were empty longing and _pointless_ research, and he didn't seem to be able to _do_ anything about it.

He spent quite a few of his days on a broom, flying about the castle turrets in the ice and snow. He didn't tell Snape, but the man had to know anyway. Harry's daily research reports, already insubstantial, were now absent entirely, and Snape's physical body was visibly healthier, his face full and a little windburnt.

Harry wondered if he were in such a mess simply because it was so forbidden, so fundamentally wrong, to have a _crush_ on Snape. But it didn't _feel_ like it, not when he thought about the man Snape was, what he'd been through. Not when he heard the man speak to the students in a way Harry had never heard from him before. Not when the man had, without complaint, Floo-called Mrs Weasley to tell her that no, he was not dating Severus Snape, but whilst they were on the topic, could he come for Christmas?

Harry watched Snape find it easier and easier every day, to be a convincing Harry. And maybe that was it, maybe he would be Harry forever now, and Harry would become more bitter and hopeless until he turned into a proper Snape.

The last day of term fell on the twenty-first. Snape returned from his last class of the day looking thoughtful.

Harry scowled at the book that he had not been reading for the past two hours.

"I was thinking," he said, as Snape rang the bell for tea. "We should take a break for Christmas. From the research, I mean."

"Very well," said Snape. Harry promptly let the book slide to the floor, pretence abandoned.

Snape raised an eyebrow. For a moment, Harry thought he might actually hate that eyebrow.

"Are you quite well, Mr Potter?" he said.

"No, Snape, I'm bloody fed up," he said. "Not to mention, I have about a hundred presents to buy in the next three days."

Snape smirked.

"Ah, ever the thoughtful strategist, I see."

Snape clearly hadn't meant it at all badly, and wasn't that a miracle in itself, but Harry was not in the mood to take it well.

"For people who won't even know who to thank," continued Harry. "Maybe I shouldn't bother. Maybe it's your problem now."

"Potter..." said Snape, wary now. "This will end. We will fix it."

"Do you even want to?" said Harry. "You seem to be having fun teaching my classes. You enjoy being me."

"You seem to get at least a little amusement out of being me. Although clearly not at the moment."

"No, not at the moment," said Harry shortly. "I miss my students. I miss my friends. I miss my _life_."

A quiet moment, Harry listening to the crackling of the fire, and then Snape said:

"A break might be all for the good. I have been meaning to check up on my caravan. And I daresay RenÃ©e will be wondering what has happened to me. Although I'll admit it might be a challenge to explain, especially as you."

Harry managed to prevent himself from saying, _I didn't mean a break from_ you. But perhaps Snape had a point; perhaps Harry was just suffering from some sort of proximity-based madness. 

"Is that the apothecary lady? You two seemed close," he said instead, cringing when it came out bitter.

"She was the only person in the whole village willing to tolerate my terrible French," said Snape, giving him an odd look.

"What's it like now?" said Harry. "Your French, I mean. It's been three years."

" _Raisonnable,_ " said Snape, shrugging. Harry bit his lip.

"You'll be back by Christmas Eve?" he said. He was comforted by the fact that Snape's gravelly voice took the edge off the misery in his tone.

"Yes, Potter, I'll be back by then," said Snape. "You won't miss the Weasley Christmas."

Harry scowled at the fire.

"Okay then," he said. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry could see Snape staring at him. His expression was another Snape novelty: bemusement. It only lasted for a moment; Snape's guard went up, his expression going stony-blank. Harry cursed himself for causing it, and forced a smile.

"Have fun. I did my best to leave your caravan secure, by the way," he said.

"Thank you, Potter," said Snape, still confused and suspicious. 

"Harry," said Harry bluntly. "Don't know why we're still doing this Potter-Snape thing, anyway."

"Harry," said Snape, and his voice was low and heavy with something, something that was not, _could not_ be what Harry thought it was. What Harry wanted it to be.

Harry bit his lip so hard he thought it might bleed, and did not dare to say, _Severus._

*

Snape left in the morning with barely a nod. Harry looked at the fire for a long time after he had left, cup of tea going cold in his hand.

Then, shaking himself, Harry prepared to head to Hogsmeade. It would be madness there, but perhaps if he took a leaf out of Snape's book and made a proper list there'd be at least a small chance of him buying something sensible for everyone.

But first came the issue of Snape's present. Harry knew what he _wanted_ to do, but he'd left it a little late. And besides, it would be of no real benefit to Snape, if this body swap was permanent.

Harry didn't have any other ideas. And Snape probably wouldn't be getting him anything, so it hardly mattered.

Also, Harry _really_ wanted to see his friend. He pulled out a piece of parchment and a quill. Letting his hand take the dominant role in the handwriting, Harry penned a letter to Neville Longbottom, and signed it, _Severus Snape_.

*

Severus's caravan was cold and dark, shadowed by the trees and the brooding winter weather. A quick inspection, a dusting charm, then Severus lit the little fire in his library and sank into his chair. The firelight banished the chill quickly enough, the honey glow glinting off the familiar gilt and varnish, and Severus settled into a book with a sigh of relief.

 _Peace_. That's what he needed, to sort out the fuzziness in his head, the ache in his chest. Potter was obviously having a hard time with the swap, he'd been increasingly strained with Severus. It had seemed prudent to give the boy some space. 

It was inevitable, really. He wasn't sure he'd met anyone in the world that could tolerate him for as long as Potter had tolerated him. Then again, he hadn't met many people whom he could tolerate, either.

Severus closed his eyes and tried not to think about it. 

His chair was not as comfortable as he remembered. His foot was twitching incessantly. And every time he hit an interesting paragraph in his book, he opened his mouth to read it to Potter. He wondered why, after more than three years living in this forest, that it only _now_ felt like he was hiding.

He set his book down. Perhaps it had been optimistic, thinking he could step back into his old life straight away, as though nothing had changed. Perhaps he should do a little Christmas shopping _._ He'd only just come back from the village, but the main street had been filled by tables of trinkets, stalls overflowing with drinks and food. There were lights strung up between the houses, and Severus could still smell the scent of cider and mulled wine on the air.

Frustrated, he pulled his jacket back on and headed back outside, pulling his broom with him. It was probably for the best that he stayed active, anyway. Potter would scold him if he didn't keep up his drills.

*

Harry's Hogsmeade meeting with Neville had been bizarre, but it had lifted a little of Harry's pining despair. Neville had blushed a lot, and their conversation had been awkward, but Neville held his chin high and met Snape's eye. And when he stood up from their table in the Three Broomsticks, Harry was astonished to realise Neville was _taller_ than him.

Harry was rather looking forward to telling Snape all about how very _nice_ he'd been to Neville.

Neville, much to his surprise, had been able to help him, and had even refused payment. Harry had wanted to hug him. He settled for the offered handshake. God, he needed his body back soon; he was beginning to feel uncomfortably starved of affection.

Just as promised, a small parcel had arrived from one of Neville's greenhouses on the morning of Christmas Eve. Harry wrapped it carefully and set it on the mantelpiece, next to the wretched totem.

The day crawled. Harry decided to take a bath, filled with bubbles to cover the sight of all that pale lean skin. He washed his hair, stubbornly not thinking about the body he inhabited, not thinking of it and certainly not imagining touching it. Not imagining seeing it properly, from within his own body. Not imagining Snape's eyes darkening as Harry slid a hand over wet skin, slipped a hand down into the bathwater...

Harry decided that perhaps a shower was what he actually needed. He'd heard a cold rinse was good for your hair.

Washed and towel-wrapped, Harry looked at himself in the mirror for a long time. Snape really did look much healthier, perhaps the healthiest he'd ever been. His face was fuller, his eyes not quite so grey and shadowed, and he thought he might even have smile lines now as well as frowning wrinkles. The scarring on his neck was extensive, but not ugly in Harry's opinion, and his hair was long and shining—although Harry thought Ginny's split-end charm wouldn't hurt. There actually wasn't anything ugly about Snape, he realised; even the nose just gave him character.

Except the teeth, Harry realised, his experimental smile turning into a grimace. Well, just like the split-end spell, that could be fixed in a matter of seconds; he dug a bottle of Insta-White Tooth Potion out of his cabinet and swigged it down. He wondered why Snape never thought to. Had he really cared for himself so little?

Yes, Harry chided himself. He really had. The man barely even ate, let alone worried about the colour of his teeth.

At three-fifteen, Harry began to plan what he would do if Snape didn't show. Hunt Snape down, probably. Floo to the little _Apothicaire_ , find his caravan. But what if he wasn't there? Caravans were famously mobile... Perhaps he'd sneak into the Auror supply room and requisition some Polyjuice. Would Polyjuice turn him back into himself for a little while? How did the bloody stuff even work? And why hadn't they _tried_ it yet? Damn Snape and his _caution_ and his _research_ , if they'd started a batch when this had all begun they could have been fixed for the new year...

At a quarter past four, Harry had sandwiches in his room and watched the sky slowly darkening. The house-elves were obviously feeling the Christmas spirit; the usual triangles of ham and cheese sandwiches were supplemented today by a hot mince pie, a dollop of cream, and a generous goblet of sweet mulled wine.

At a quarter past eight, there was a knock at the door. Harry, nearly dozing, almost fell off the edge of the sofa. Then he stared at the door, almost wondering if he'd imagined it. McGonagall had left the castle for a few days, presumably to see family or tend to her actual home, and she was the only one likely to knock rather than Floo.

Harry realised with a hot blush that the door would likely not open itself, and pulled himself up. He strode to the door, smoothing down his hair, and then pulled it open. 

Harry realised he'd already forgotten how damn _surreal_ it was, to see his own face when he expected another's. Snape-in-Harry was dressed in the chenille jumper and holding an old-fashioned brown suitcase. He looked, perhaps, a little uncertain. Harry looked at him, then at the fireplace, confused.

"It seemed impolite to Floo in," said Snape.

"I think we're past that point," said Harry dryly, then his smile escaped him. "Come on in, I'll ring for tea and biscuits."

Snape's shoulders visibly dropped. Harry cursed the sudden swelling pleasure in his chest.

"How was Normandy?" said Harry, sitting back in the armchair. 

"Quiet," said Snape, taking the sofa. "Pleasant. There was a Christmas market in the village."

"Sounds nice," said Harry.

Snape looked at him for a long moment.

"Snape," said Harry quietly. "I mean... Severus..."

Snape closed his eyes.

"Tell me about her," said Harry.

"Potter," said Snape. "I..."

"Harry," said Harry. "Please. We have to. We _have_ to talk about it."

"I should have told you before now," said Snape quietly. Harry looked at him. He hadn't expected that.

Snape didn't say anything more. Instead, he pulled his suitcase closer, sliding a hand inside the zip to pull out a paper-wrapped bottle. He poured a liberal dash of the dark golden drink into his teacup, and then topped it up with tea.

"Whiskey?" said Harry.

"No," said Snape, with the tiniest hint of an absent smile. "Cognac, _naturellement_."

He offered it to Harry. Harry shrugged and took it, adding it to his teacup as Snape had done, adding sugar for good measure.

There was silence as they sipped. It was nice enough, for hard liquor, and it settled warm and fuzzy into Harry's chest.

"Lily Evans was the first person," began Snape, alcohol-roughened, barely above a whisper, "perhaps the only person, to show me what love was supposed to look like. Lily... she loved easily, she gave herself to everything, from standing in the rain to the delicate balance of a well-executed charm to her bitter little brat of a sister. She loved, and she was kind, and adventurous, and impulsive. She was the light when I was dark, and she loved _me_."

Harry swallowed. It was strange and uncomfortable, to see that pain etched deep into his own face. 

"And I tried to stop her loving," continued Snape. "I tried to keep it all for myself, and I was cruel when I should have been kind, and eventually she had no choice but to turn away. But you have to understand something, Potter— _Harry_. There will never be a day when I do not feel her absence. But there was never any notion of... romance."

Severus Snape stared into the empty fireplace. Harry's breath caught. Why was he telling Harry this?

"Lily loved me in the way she would love a bird with a broken wing," said Snape, with an affectionate expression in his borrowed eyes. "She loved me like a nurturer, like a mother. She could not love me like an equal, she could not look into my face and see the dark and the ugly and accept it as it was. Nor should she, much as I wished she would. And of course, I could not love her as she deserved. For more reasons than you know. She was not... a soulmate. Just my dearest friend."

"No," said Harry bluntly. "No, it doesn't make sense. If I shared a Patronus with every person I considered a dear friend it'd have an identity crisis."

"You may be overestimating the number of decent friends I've had," said Snape dryly.

"No," said Harry, and he didn't know why he was so attached to the story of his mother and Snape, considering how completely it interfered with his feelings for the man. Or was that why? 

"I don't get it. If she wasn't your _soulmate_ , why did you let everyone think—did you even mean it, when you told Dumbledore _always_..?"

Severus, finally, looked up from the fire.

"Potter," he said, irritable now. "Of course I did. I am responsible for the death of my only and best friend—take a moment, Potter, to consider whether you would _ever_ not miss them, _ever_ not think of them, were you to lose Weasley or Granger."

A pit of nausea opened in Harry's stomach at the thought. Harry set down his doctored tea.

"But you still lied," he continued coldly. "At the trial, when everyone was going over your _tragic love story_."

"I did not _lie_ , Potter. It is hardly my fault everyone likes to assume—"

"You did!" Harry didn't know why he was so angry—he felt fifteen again, like a boy in Occlumency lessons, even though his voice was the rasp of a much older man. "You never said _anything_. You just let the Wizengamot think you were Romeo and Juliet. Because it suited you, because you knew romance would get you sympathy! You let me think you loved her, _Dumbledore_ think you loved her! _Why_? What if Hermione's right, what if you are just a habitual liar, what if the one thing I thought made you a good man isn't even true—"

" _Potter_ ," snarled Snape, and he looked suddenly dangerous, the force of his fury making Harry's small frame look bigger. Harry's skin prickled with the force of it. "I. Did. Love. Her."

Harry shut his mouth with a snap. He was being ridiculous, of course. So Snape hadn't interrupted the Wizengamot to protest, 'Oh no, we were just friends'... was that so unreasonable? Was that what Harry _really_ objected to?

"Do you think it'll always be a doe?" said Harry, unsure of where the question came from.

"I don't know, Potter," said Snape quietly, setting down his tea, and for some reason his anger seemed to have evaporated. "Do you think yours will always be a stag?"

Everything in Harry seemed to stop dead.

He didn't mean—of course he didn't, his Patronus had been a doe for _years,_ he wasn't _intentionally_ drawing the link—but that didn't change the fact that they _were_ so bloody similar, so completely connected, a reflection of each other. 

Did it mean anything? Did it mean anything to _Snape_?

Harry stared into his own green eyes, his mother's eyes, and thought about the man behind them. A dark mirror of Harry, in so many ways. He watched his own eyes widen, saw his own mouth open, his own lashes closing in fear—desire—both. It was his own face, but Harry didn't care anymore, because the maelstrom in his chest was too much to bear and he did not have the words to express it, didn't have anything left but action.

He slid forward off his chair and across to the sofa in a long, smooth movement, reaching a hand out to slide behind Snape's neck. Harry drew himself in, drew them close together, then hesitated; the green eyes fluttered closed, and Harry didn't need a better invitation to close the space between their lips.

With his eyes closed, it was not strange to kiss himself - it was _good_ , a warm mouth below his, warm skin below his palm and soft hair through his fingers, and best of all there was Severus Snape behind it all, bringing his hands up to clutch at Harry's shoulders, Severus Snape pressing them closer together. _Severus,_ opening his mouth against Harry's and _groaning_ , deep in his throat, when Harry slid his tongue inside.

Harry was half-falling against him, and Severus shifted a leg so Harry's knee could fit between his own. Severus moaned when that brought their bodies flush. Harry tried to make a noise but it stuck on the scarring in his throat _,_ and the hands holding Harry's shoulders clutched at him, nails digging in. Harry was shaking all over, and he could feel the body beneath him quivering as he focused on the hot, soft feeling of the mouth below him, the press of the warm chest against his own.

Severus pulled him back just a little, gasping for breath like a man running. Harry pressed wet lips against the side of his face. 

"I guess we can now cross kissing off the list of potential cures," Harry murmured. Severus's breathy amusement tingled over Harry's damp skin. As one, they turned their heads to the mantelpiece, where the little stone totem surveyed the scene. Harry didn't know how such a featureless thing could look so... smug.

"You don't think it wants more than that...?" said Severus, voice breathy with a note of hysteria, and Harry realised that he was eyeing the totem's ridiculous stone erection.

"I think it's _definitely_ worth a try," said Harry, his voice rough, and not just because of the scars. Harry watched his own eyes darken with pleasure. Then Severus nodded, looking afraid and undone and Harry kissed him again, pushing him back against the sofa, pressing quick and desperate lips over whatever skin he could reach. Severus reached a hand between them and Harry thought his heart might burst out of his chest, but Severus simply clutched at the wand in his pocket, wordlessly opening out the sofa bed, falling back as soft pillows burst up around them. Harry stretched out, slid along the body beneath him, shifted until every inch of them was pressed together.

Harry didn't have it in him to be cautious. He wormed a hand between them to unbutton Severus's jeans, and Severus worked his own right hand to the front of Harry's trousers. His other hand tangled into long hair. Harry pulled away enough to tug his trousers down, bashing his knee against the sofa bed but unable to care as a hand reached out to slide into his boxers. He closed his eyes, the feel of a warm hand around him both familiar and strange; this body was sensitive in ways and places different from his own. Severus, of course, knew how to pull pleasure from this body, and did so with a firm grip. Harry went rigid, gasping against the man, holding himself together just enough to slide a hand into open jeans and press his palm against firm flesh. Severus made a noise, and it was utterly strange to hear his own voice whimper like that, but it felt so good to feel this after so long—Harry wasn't sure if he'd ever felt this—

Then Severus kissed him again, fierce and open-mouthed, and Harry knew this was not going to last long. He ground his hips into the hand around him, wriggling his fingers into the boxers beneath his palm and rubbing with the rhythm of his hips, eyes still closed and mouth kissing any skin he could find. It was Severus murmuring, _god, yes_ against his mouth that undid him, turned his movement jerky as he pressed their bodies together, body like electric, feeling himself coming into the space between them. And Harry could feel Severus against him, feel him losing all control, and he couldn't cope, couldn't bear the aching pleasure, it was too much—Severus arched beneath him, and the world was swallowed up into a burst of golden light.

*

Harry opened his eyes and stared up into the face of Severus Snape.

His pale skin was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, a scarlet flush high on his sharp cheekbones. His dark hair was falling all about him, veiling the room beyond. His lips were parted and his eyes were fluttering open, glassy pools in which Harry could see—himself. A darkened, flushed reflection.

He thought it might be the best thing he'd ever seen.

Severus's pupils narrowed sharply when he focused on Harry, and when he moved back a little Harry suddenly became aware of the disconnect between his perception and gravity, of the fact that he was _under_ Severus when before he'd been on top. Harry's stomach lurched.

But then Severus was moving away, and something was shuttering in his face, so Harry ignored the disconcerting feeling crawling up his spine to grab the man and pull him down into a kiss.

At first, it was just a fierce press of lips, closed-mouthed and a little awkward, but Harry did not want Severus to come to himself just yet so he tilted his head, smiling when Severus's mouth softened a little. He drew his tongue over the man's lips, gentle and curious. It was odd, to have kissed this man already and yet to feel a different mouth against his own, but Harry liked it. He liked rediscovering his own body through touching Severus, loved the way that Severus surrendered to it, both of them still soft and foggy with pleasure. Severus reached up, one shaking hand lacing into Harry's hair, stroking him as though he were a skittish animal who might flee. 

Harry's leg was going dead, and he was not looking forward to dealing with the sticky mess between them, but it was still too soon when Severus finally pulled away. He staggered back, and Harry bit his lip at the sight he made: shirt rumpled and half-way up his chest, black jeans undone and boxers low on his hips, a glistening patch of dampness over his stomach. And his face, staring at him, wild and desperate and _painful_.

"That was—" said Severus, and Harry knew he was going to say something intolerably annoying like, _inadvisable_ or _a mistake, Potter._

 __"Effective," said Harry, propping himself up on his elbows and grinning. He shot a glance at the little totem. Was it Harry's imagination, or was the little stone erection _smaller_? Somehow the whole thing looked less defined, less humanoid, and Harry couldn't see what had reminded him of Snape at all... 

"Do you think it was just the, you know, orgasm? Like, if we'd just done that at the start...?"

Harry couldn't help but feel pleased with himself when whatever angst-ridden monologue Severus was about to launch into, disintegrated in a huff of breath. A huff that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

"Perhaps," said Severus eventually, after a long moment of staring at the thing. "The thought did occur to me at the beginning."

"Me too," said Harry, pretending offence when Severus's eyes widened. "Hey, I can think of things too, you know."

"Potter, you infuriating lunatic," said Severus, eyes roaming wildly about the room as if looking for something that made sense. "I was rather more surprised at the idea of you being able to contemplate... _this_."

"Been contemplating it for a while now, actually," said Harry in a rough voice, pleased when Severus's lids lowered. "How about you?"

Severus seemed to realise abruptly that he was still sticky and half-dressed. He fished out his wand and cast it over his stomach, then proceeded to tuck the white shirt into the trousers and button them. With his hair long and wild and his skin still flushed, Harry didn't think it made him look any less debauched.

Harry sighed and sat up, cleaning the mess with his wand.

"More tea?" he said, eyeing the bell-pull optimistically.

"That's your answer to everything," said Severus, but obediently summoned an Elf anyway; a fresh teapot appeared. 

"I don't have a lot of coping mechanisms for awkwardness," agreed Harry, tapping the sofa bed with his wand to reassemble it. "But having something to do with my hands definitely helps."

"That, and being relentlessly blunt," said Severus, and Harry was fairly sure he was blushing. He sat down next to Harry on the sofa, though, and Harry restrained himself from leaning against the man.

"Well," said Harry. "If that's my special skill I might as well go all in."

Severus looked at him, genuinely alarmed. Harry paused for effect, looking at Severus teasingly over his teacup, and Harry was surprised to note how Severus's eyes were drawn to his lips.

"So this is weird," he said, lowering the cup to his lap. " _So_ weird. But I want to see where it goes. I don't think I can do anything else, the idea of just boxing this all up and I dunno, watching you vanish into the woods somewhere..."

Harry looked at Severus, looking for a clue that any of this was reciprocated. He took in the man's defensive shoulders, the way the scarring at his throat highlighted the skittering pulse point at his neck, the way his lips had gone thin _—_

"That reminds me," said Severus, and his voice sounded almost normal, almost casual. "I have something to tell you, Potter."

" _Harry_ ," said Harry impatiently.

"Harry." agreed Severus. "I... brought my caravan. It's parked up in the Forbidden Forest. I was not expecting us to change back, of course. I thought we might both benefit from a little more... space. But I—" Severus looked for a moment like his throat had closed over—"I'm in no hurry to return to Normandy with it."

"Oh," said Harry. "Oh. Good." He bit his lip against the urge to kiss the man again.

Then he beamed.

"Well, of course you can't go," he continued. "You still have to come to the Weasley Christmas."

Harry laughed at the stricken look on Severus's face.

*

Severus was trying very hard to control the panic rising in his chest. The physical contact, touching his own body, he could cope with that. He could pretend it was nothing, even if he knew the affair would have had no appeal at all if not for the man inside his body, the man who'd made such delicious and desperate sounds—

No, he could cope with that. But the kiss, the way Harry had clung to him, the _smile_ against his lips. As though Harry wanted this, as though everything about kissing Severus Snape was fantastic. And his utterly fucking _beautiful_ face, everything from the golden skin to the dark, dark lashes and that soft black hair under his fingers...

It all seemed too much to want. It all seemed like the setup to some future agony. So Severus had pulled away, and he'd nearly managed to get out some words that might have included the phrase, _doomed voyage_ , but Harry had cut him off and Severus had... let him.

He _couldn't_ fight Harry. He couldn't choose misery and bitterness and loneliness again. He'd promised he would not. He'd promised Potter, of all people, that he would _try._

And then there was the bloody Weasley Christmas, where everyone would ask them about the bloody _Prophet_ and he'd have to do the 'how ludicrous and disgusting' bit again, but now with the memory of Harry's lips against his own. He wondered if Molly Weasley would actually hex him if she found out.

He couldn't go, of course, but he couldn't think of a way to tell Harry that wouldn't wipe that perfect smile away.

"Well," he said, after he'd spent far too long memorising every contour of that smiling mouth. "I should..."

"Stay here tonight," said Harry, a flush crawling up his neck. "It's Christmas."

Severus's eyes flicked down to the sofa bed.

"In my room," said Harry, urgent and impatient. "Not that we have to, you know... I mean, just sleep."

As if Severus could keep his hands off him, together in the dark. _God_ , the thought alone sent fire rushing back into his veins.

"I don't think..." he began.

"That's my job," said Harry quickly. "I don't think, and you _over_ think. But let's just do it my way tonight, yeah?"

Harry stood up and offered a hand. It was still absurdly early; Severus began to doubt the sincerity of Potter's commitment to just _sleep._ Or perhaps he thought if he got Severus in bed before he had a chance to think about it, he'd be more likely to stay there rather than flee. It was not a strategy completely without merit.

Severus took the boy's hand and pulled himself off the sofa bed. He sighed as his back twinged a little; he'd become accustomed to the delight that was getting up without making a faint noise. He'd become accustomed to a lot of good things about Potter's body. 

That said, Harry had been doing some excellent work improving Severus's. Severus had never really rated the significance of his physical form, something he realised may have been a tactical error.

"There's more you need to understand," he said, as Harry pulled him closer. "I don't—I'm not—I haven't—"

Harry looked at him quizzically for a moment. Severus was so close that he could see the firelight shining gold off his jet-black lashes, smell the scent of clean, flushed skin.

"Are you trying to say you haven't ever had... a relationship before?" said Harry.

"No," said Severus. "Or... yes. I have not had a _relationship_ in a very long time, and I have never had one that was even remotely... normal. And there are things..."

In the Slytherin dorms, sex had been a tradable commodity. Something you could offer to curry favour, or use as blackmail material. But Severus hadn't wanted a transaction: he'd wanted approval, wanted _affection_ , wanted anything that looked a little like love. He'd been an easy target, for a year or so.

Severus had taken steps to end that sort of culture, as Head of House.

"Snape. I mean, _Severus_. I mean... at some point I'm going to get used to that," said Harry. "I have had the grand total of one relationship, and it was pretty dysfunctional in that I liked her very much but we didn't give each other the right things and also, I didn't want to sleep with her. I didn't really even register what wanting to sleep with someone actually _felt_ like until I was about twenty, can you believe that? All I have is several bad childhood examples, lots of kissing and a handful of wildly unsuccessful first dates. We'll just have to... figure it out as we go. I'm told normal people do it all the time."

Severus pulled a face. He had no idea what Potter would want from him—no idea what the expectations were—

"Think of it as an extended research project," said Harry, and much to his irritation, the thought did make Severus's shoulders drop. It was more like an experiment, he thought. S _tep one, kiss Potter. Step two, observe the results. Step three, repeat until he found the best technique to turn Potter into a desperate mess..._

There was an annoyingly smug half-smile on Harry's face. He realised he was still staring down at Harry's lips.

"Curse you to hell, Harry bloody Potter," he growled, and closed the distance between their mouths.

Severus wasn't entirely sure how they got to the bedroom after that. He knew he'd bruised his shin, and he had the vivid image of pressing Harry against the doorframe, entwining their fingers, biting at the soft skin of his neck. But now he was here, on Harry's bed, in the dim light of Harry's lamp, and Harry was straddling him and wrestling to remove his own jumper while Severus touched and stroked every inch of the skin revealed. Then Harry started on his shirt buttons, and Severus wanted to cringe away, but the look on Harry's face was his fierce and determined one, jawline perfect and eyes intense, the face they liked to put on Potter's biographies. Severus didn't dare resist, couldn't _bear_ to resist him. Potter seemed to like the sight of his pale chest, his eyes and fingers tracing the scars and skin, gentle fingertips running over muscles and along his ribs. It was almost unbearably sensitive, and Severus eventually drew Harry's hands away before he performed an undignified squirm. 

"Sorry," murmured Harry, smiling, "I should know better."

Harry made a good point. They'd known each other's bodies. And Severus _did_ have a slightly better idea of what Harry enjoyed now. He cursed himself for resisting the temptation to experiment in Potter's body—if only he'd known—

Sensing his momentary distraction, Harry curled his hands in Severus's hair and kissed him. Harry kissed with feeling, unashamed of the fact that when Severus traced his tongue over his lower lip he made a soft sound in his throat. Unaware, or untroubled by the fact that he was making small movements with his hips, writhing against Severus's body. When Severus's lick turned to a bite, Potter actually growled and dug his nails into Severus's chest. 

Harry pulled away long enough to pull his trousers down, and this was the first time Severus had got to see him fully, to see that skin glow like amber in the lamplight, to see firm muscles and strong thighs and that flushed cock curving up at him. Severus resisted the urge to succumb to self-consciousness, and tugged off his own trousers. Harry ran a firm hand down his chest, eyes wide, then slid back onto Severus and pressed their bodies together. Severus clutched at him, pulling him tight, and Harry mouthed wild kisses against his neck and murmured,

"We're kind of brushing up against the edge of my experience right now. Well, actually we're probably well over the edge, taking into account the nakedness."

"Ah," said Severus. He contemplated for a moment; it was hard, with Potter nuzzling into his neck in an animal fashion. "Perhaps we should stop for tonight."

"Um," said Harry, "No, no I don't think we should."

"Very well," growled Severus, and rolled him over. Harry stared at him, eyes wide and pupils dilated, and Severus bent down over him to kiss his neck, his collarbone, trailing gentle bites down his chest. When Severus had reached Harry's navel, Harry propped himself up on his elbows and stared at him. 

Severus looked down at Harry's cock, rosy and perfect, curving upward towards him. Then he looked up at Harry, seeking permission. Harry looked as though he couldn't quite believe what he saw, like he couldn't even speak.

Severus raised an eyebrow.

"Are you actually waiting for _permission?_ " said Harry, voice breathy. "Yes, please, _God_ —"

Severus engulfed Harry's cock with his mouth, and Potter's throat caught on his words, mouth a silent _O._ Then his head fell back, and Severus didn't think that any of the handful of times he'd done this had been anything like this satisfying. Feeling Harry's pulse, warm and strong under his tongue; the way Potter's hands clutched at his hair; the way he tried to speak but couldn't quite make up the sentence, a litany of _oh, I, yes, oh, please, I can't—_

Severus could tell when Harry was about to come, could tell before Harry tried to warn him. He kept his pace steady, lips moving over rigid flesh, one hand around the base and the other curling gently under Harry's tightening balls. Severus wanted to feel him, wanted to have Harry desperate and undone, wanted to know that he'd reduced Harry to this beautiful, shameless, _perfect_ mess— 

"Oh, I—" he said, and then he was arching up, flooding Severus's mouth with bitter heat. Severus swallowed, then looked up at Harry, releasing him gently from his mouth.

Harry opened his eyes to look at him. The expression was something close to awe.

"That was— _so_ good," said Harry. "I want a go."

Severus stared at him.

"Potter, Harry, you don't—that's not—"

"I want a go," repeated Harry, pulling himself out from under Snape a little, sitting up against the headboard. Severus didn't think he could even _think_ of Harry sucking his cock without coming again, it was too good, he didn't deserve it— 

Harry pushed Severus's shoulder gently, until Severus gave in and rolled onto his back.

"Kneel here," said Severus, patting the space at the side of him. He wanted to be able to reach Harry, to touch him. Harry moved into the position, limbs lazy, face a little nervous. Severus ran his hand through Harry's wild, soft hair.

"All this has been— too good for words," he said. "Anything else is..."

Harry grinned at him.

"Yeah," he said, "That's great, glad you're happy, but the thing is, I really, _really_ want to try it."

Severus bit his lip and lay back against the cushions. Somehow, he thought he might be more nervous than Harry. Then Harry, beautiful Harry, licked a long slow path up from the base of Severus's cock, and he couldn't think any longer. He made a noise in his throat, utterly undignified, and the smirk Harry gave him was devastating. A firm hand wrapped around the base of him, and Severus desperately wanted to keep watching as Harry lowered his mouth over the tip. But the feel of that warm, wet mouth around him made his head drop back to the pillow, back arching.

Potter was natural, enthusiastic and hopelessly ambitious, wrapping his lips in tight, hot pressure over the head of Snape's cock and moving, urgently, trying to swallow too much of him. Severus held his hair, tugging in a gentle warning to take it slow, but it was no good; Potter wasn't paying attention to caution and good sense, he was too busy drinking in every twitch and groan that Severus couldn't quite suppress, too busy looking up at him with bright eyes every time Severus's hands clenched too tight in his hair. After a long moment in which Severus thought he might faint from trying to control the impulse to thrust, Harry pulled back a little, sliding from a knelt position into lying on his stomach. And then he resumed his sucking and licking and choking, still sloppily enthusiastic, one hand under Severus's balls, one knuckle pressing, perhaps accidentally, against Severus's perineum. Severus groaned and twitched in a way that made Harry choke and Severus burn with shame, but Harry obviously caught the connection as he pressed down more firmly with his knuckles, and Severus was completely beyond hope, had to trust that the strong hand on his hip would be enough to prevent him from choking Harry, he had absolutely no control left— he pulled sharply on Harry's hair, trying to warn him, but Harry _resisted_ , and Severus could see the boy's hips moving gently as if grinding into the bed and it was _too good_ , too good, he had to come, the feeling shooting through him like fire—

When Severus came to himself, Harry was kneeling and wiping his mouth, making a disgusted expression. Severus's abject guilt must have shown on his face, because Harry rolled his eyes.

"Don't look like that, I knew what I was getting into," said Harry. He grinned, and as if to make a point he bent down and licked over the head of Severus's cock one final time. A shiver slipped down Severus's spine.

Harry's cock was hanging between his thighs, half-hard. Severus slid a hand towards it, but Harry stopped him.

"Don't bother, it's on its way down," said Harry, with an awkward sort of smile. Severus stared at him, and Harry looked down at a small damp spot on the bed with a sheepish expression. "While I was..." he said, and Severus had to close his eyes at the thought. There was absolutely no way he could go _again_ , twice was enough of a rarity these days, but the thought of that—of Harry enjoying his pleasure so much— 

He grabbed Harry's hand and pulled the man against his side, tugging the duvet up with his other hand to cover them both. He didn't care that there were damp patches everywhere, and he'd probably get the duvet in a mess. Harry made a noise of protest, but then he curled up comfortably against Snape's side, sliding an arm over his chest.

"I'm in a wet spot," complained Harry in his ear.

" _Tergeo_ ," muttered Severus, wandless, and had no idea whether the spell had worked before he was falling, falling into sleep, Harry's body warm and heavy by his side.

**Part Seven**

A bar of bright winter light woke Harry from sleep that morning. He kept his eyes tight shut, pulling himself down into the soft covers, but it was no good; his body never knew it was the holidays and was quite ready to get up and go for a run. 

He stretched his arms out, and his fingertips met warm flesh. 

Harry's eyes flew open. Lying beside him with his back to Harry, of course, was Severus Snape. Harry had a muddled moment, where all their years of history warred with the feel of him below Harry's hands, the vivid memory of Snape's mouth upon him. It was strange, how the intensity of Harry's feelings towards him had flipped. 

He looked at Severus. His back was scarred, his breathing low and even, his hair mussed and loose about his shoulders. Harry wanted to touch him, but the boundaries of this relationship were too new, too strange. Perhaps he shouldn't have invited the man to bed, perhaps they'd need time—

 _Christmas,_ thought Harry. _It's Christmas day. You invited him because it's Christmas day and you wanted to see him when you woke up..._

Harry gave up the pretence of restraint, and curled close around the warm back in front of him. Snape stirred, moved back against him, then seemed to wake up enough to realise that this was not a normal morning; he went stiff against Harry's chest, reaching a hand back to grope at Harry's thigh in sleepy, bemused exploration. Harry kissed the back of his neck, reassuring. To Harry's surprise Snape responded by taking the hand slung over him and lacing his fingers through Harry's, pulling Harry's hand up to his chest and holding them tightly together.

Harry lay against him for a long time, feeling both of their heartbeats calm. Then Severus gently released Harry's hand and slipped, gracefully, out of the bed. Severus was all long, elegant lines in the dim morning light, dignified even in nudity. He cast a look at Harry and his face was tense, as if braced for a punch.

"Merry Christmas," said Harry, grinning and stretching, extremely pleased when Severus's lids lowered, eyes running down his bare torso. "Do you want to go flying?"

"Surely I can escape your relentless exercise regime for _one_ _day_ ," said Severus, but he was smirking slightly.

"A recreational flight," said Harry, smiling. "Up to the roof. We can watch the sun on the lake."

Severus eyed the scattered clothes about the bed, then the Gryffindor robe on the back of the bedroom door. Sighing, he strolled over to it and put it on. Harry smirked.

" _Fine_ ," he said, sounding long-suffering. Harry was not fooled. 

Severus stalked out, presumably to the bathroom, and Harry pulled on his jogging bottoms and a t-shirt with a longing look at his warm, messy bed. He headed into the front room to call for tea, and Severus emerged from the bathroom as he was pouring them each a cup.

"And afterwards," said Harry, as though there had been no break in the conversation, "We can raid the kitchens for a bit of breakfast. I've got to give Kreacher his Christmas present. And then we can head to the Weasleys."

Severus looked at him over his teacup, mouth twisting.

"You know," he said, "You no longer _need_ me to attend. You could owl Molly—"

"Not a chance," said Harry. "If there is any hope for me _ever_ being able to tell anyone I love about this, you _cannot_ cancel on Molly Weasley."

"Potter," said Severus, "You don't have to tell anyone. I don't need any sort of public validation—"

"What do you think this is, exactly?" said Harry, exasperated. "I mean, assuming we don't murder each other or something, I would like to be able to, at some point..." 

_God, this is mad,_ thought Harry, searching Severus's expressionless face. He was scared that if he said it, the man would run a mile.

"Be serious," he finished, because he was a Gryffindor. "About this. If you think this is some kind of forbidden tryst that you'll eventually get bored of—"

"I don't know what I think," said Severus quickly, "Potter, I have no idea what I am doing, have we not established this yet?"

Harry gave him a grin. 

"You seem to know how to do some things."

Something hot flared in Severus's eyes, and it brought an answering burn low in Harry's abdomen. He leaned back in his chair, eyes travelling down the front of Harry's t-shirt, and Harry smiled.

*

Flying with Harry was a welcome distraction from the feeling of complete and utter panic that threatened to consume Severus at any moment. He was nothing but a knot of pure fear, fear and hopeless desire. He wanted nothing more than to touch Harry again, nothing more than to tell him the feelings that surged in his chest at the sight of that smile. He _wanted_ , and he was hopelessly afraid of losing Harry, and he wanted to flee.

But he was trying to be better. He had to try, even if the whole thing ended in messy, ugly bitterness. It would hurt, but he had felt hurt so many times before. He would live. And he would learn from it. 

This was about more than Harry, even though Severus could scarcely think about anything else.

They stopped off at the kitchen at half past nine, messy and windswept, and Harry gave Kreacher his gift, which turned out to be a tea cosy. Kreacher seemed bemused but happy enough, and the whole thing seemed to have some deep significance to Harry.

They showered together afterwards, Severus trailing soap along the perfect lines of Harry's skin. Harry's curious fingers mapped his own, tracing scars with silent questions Severus told himself he would one day answer. And Severus knelt before Harry in the bath to take him into his mouth, warm and slow. Hot water ran over his back, Harry's fingers tangled through his hair. Severus drank in the quiet sounds of Harry's gasps, wrapping his fingers around himself, Harry swaying and clutching at him, both of them drawn over the edge with the sound of water roaring in their ears.

Severus had sore knees after, but Harry's smile made the pain seem unimportant.

The morning's bliss was over when it came to dressing for the Weasleys' Christmas Dinner.

"Jeans are out," said Harry glumly. "I made the mistake of wearing them last year, I had to spend most of the afternoon with them unbuttoned under the table and at one point I forgot and flashed my Chudley Cannons boxers at Fleur. Wish I could just wear jogging bottoms. Or better yet, _pyjamas_."

Harry looked dreamy. Severus snorted and reached for the newest pair of black teaching robes, the ones they'd bought in Gladrags.

"No way," said Harry. "You can't wear teaching robes for Christmas. Trousers or dress robes. If I suffer, you suffer."

"Well, Potter, as my dress robes are in the caravan and I can hardly wander down there in my current state of dishabille—"

"I don't know what that means exactly, but I think I like it," said Harry, eyeing his low-slung towel, and Severus lost the ability to speak for a moment. "And have you noticed that the more sarcastic you are, the more likely you are to call me Potter?"

"I had not," said Severus. " _Harry_."

"Here," said Harry, beaming and handing him the stupidly expensive black dress robes with the silver trim. "Have these. They're self-tailoring anyway. You can keep them, you chose them, they're more your thing."

"Thank you," said Severus. "That reminds me — I have a gift. For you. In my suitcase."

"Oh!" said Harry. "Really? I've got a gift for you too. Do you want to—" Harry glanced at his bedside clock. "Oh, I don't think there's time, we really need to get dressed _now,_ bugger it all. It'll _have_ to be the new jeans, at least they're smart. Grey shirt or green?"

"Green," said Severus, somewhat arbitrarily. 

"You're right," said Harry, as though he were a fashion sage. "The grey shirt is a bit dark for Christmas."

Severus pulled on a pair of the snitch boxers and then slid into the silken dress robes. The tailoring charm sent a shiver through him, the seams pulling in, sleeves lengthening. The robes were spelled to be tight-fitting over the torso, flowing out at the hips, with traditional wide sleeves. The glittering silver-stitched hem seemed to swirl and float out at the merest movement in a way that only a magical fabric could.

He looked up at Harry when he was done; Harry looked up from doing up his buttons and his eyes went wide.

"Oh, They're kind of... amazing," said Harry. "Good job we had that shower or I'd jump you."

Severus cursed his weakness in accepting the invitation to the shower, dreaming of a world in which Harry Potter let him off embarrassing social engagements in exchange for sexual favours.

"You look surprisingly smart yourself," he said. The shirt ran appealingly over Harry's shoulders, and Severus would sell his soul to whatever deity that had made him pick up those tight black jeans.

He looked at himself in the mirror. He had to admit, the robes had been worth the expense. Severus had become accustomed to being an ugly person, was at ease with the notion, but something had changed. No, _everything_ had changed; his posture, the dark circles under his eyes, the hollow cheeks, the lank hair, the permanent frown. And, most significantly of all, his own self-perception. 

He liked it. He also liked the way Harry's eyes were raking over the flowing silk.

"Come on," said Harry. "I just need to grab the present bag and then we can go."

They took the Floo to The Three Broomsticks, the easiest way to get outside of the Hogwarts Apparition wards. Harry didn't want to Floo straight to the Burrow, partly because the Weasley Floo was so busy at Christmas but partly because he always hit his head on the Weasley's mantel. Severus clutched his case to him as he spiralled to his first destination, the fireplaces of Hogsmeade flashing past in a nauseating whirl. It did his jangling nerves no good at all. The Apparating was hardly better, though he felt comforted by Harry's arm in his as they side-along Apparated.

Harry looked regretful as he drew his arm away. Severus felt the sense of doom close in on him, just like the wonky walls of the charmingly ramshackle Burrow.

"Harry! You're later than usual, I was worried! Merry Christmas!" said a voice from behind a steamed-up, open window, and then Hermione Granger was opening the front door and running out to them. She looked smart but soft, in a simple blue dress and a silvery cardigan that clearly didn't protect her from the chill. She wrapped Harry in a hug as though she hadn't seen him in years. 

Severus could see the side of Potter's smile against her dark curls. Something complicated twisted in him; he ignored it.

Granger pulled away, eyeing Snape with her lips pressed together. Severus found himself thinking about what Granger would think of his and Potter's morning, and found it within himself to smile at her. It might, he'd admit, look a little more like a smirk, but there was only so much any one man could stand to change.

"Professor," she said. Then her eyes slid down to the dress robes and went slightly wide.

"I'm no longer a Professor," said Severus. "Feel free to call me Mr Snape." He gave Harry a tiny glance. "Or Severus, if the idea does not alarm you too much."

Hermione looked surprised, and amused despite herself. 

"I'd be delighted to, Severus, and do call me Hermione," she said, because she was a Gryffindor and she'd been challenged. "Merry Christmas. Sorry, I've kept us all in the cold, come on up to the house. It's a full one this year."

"Ah," said Severus, "Perhaps I should—"

"Oh no," said Hermione, catching Harry's arm and tugging him towards the door. "I didn't mean it like that, we'd hardly notice one more. Charlie's actually brought someone, can you believe it Harry? And Andromeda and Teddy are here, and it's Percy and Audrey's year to do the Burrow too, and Ginny invited Luna which is lovely I think. George and Ron have done a beautiful job on the pavilion."

" _Pavilion_?" mouthed Severus, over Hermione's head. Harry just grinned and shrugged.

It became obvious why a window was open as they entered the house. The kitchen was emitting waves of heat and scented steam into the corridor, the house ringing with a clatter of pans.

"Molly?" said Hermione in the doorway. "Harry's here. And Prof—er—Severus."

Molly Weasley, hair frizzy with steam and wiping her hands on her apron, looked up and beamed at them both.

"Harry!" she said, taking a pan off the heat without even looking at it and then hurrying over to him. She pulled him into a crushing hug, and then held him out at arms length for inspection.

"Look at you! New clothes? I couldn't help but notice you looked awfully smart in the _Prophet_ , too—er, well, not that we abide that dreadful rag, of course. Are you well? You look well, although you've always been alarmingly thin, dear, goodness knows where you put your food! Speaking of which," she said, looking up at Severus with a stern expression, "you've no idea how delighted I am to have you here to feed, Severus, after all that time at Grimmauld trying to get you to sit down and eat something between all that _spying_." She said _spying_ as though it were some sort of frivolous hobby. "You look— well, you look the best I've ever seen you, actually, and I'm very glad of it. Well, I'll hope you'll both forgive me but I'd better get back to the veg. Arthur or the kids will see to your drinks, I think they're all out putting the finishing touches on the pavilion."

"Thank you, Molly," said Severus, all he could manage after that barrage, so casually welcoming after so many long years and terrible events.

"Smells amazing," said Harry, expression glowing with repressed affection. Molly smiled, barely registering the comment as she fired a charm at a large, whistling pot.

"Come on," said Hermione quietly. "There's Buck's Fizz in the garden. Leave your presents in the lounge, we'll do them after dinner."

Harry and Severus set down their respective bags in the lounge, next to the tree. Harry's elbow bumped Severus's as they bent down together; Harry looked at him, and Severus was filled with the urge to press him down onto the Weasley sofa and kiss him as though the world were ending.

"Oh, yes," said Hermione in a slightly strange voice, and they both straightened up. Harry looked hopelessly shifty. "How's your project going?"

"Well," said Harry, grinning, "You're not actually going to believe the story. As it turns out—" he stopped. Looked back at Severus, thoughtfully. "I'm still not going to tell you about it."

Severus raised his eyebrows. Could they still not speak of it? But Harry was smiling at him now, warm and a bit mischievous, and Severus contemplated the look. Harry, Severus supposed, had done a lot of things as Severus that would be undone if it came out that they were swapped. Like apologising to Minerva... 

No, he was happy to let that stand, even though the good work had not been his; it seemed unnecessary to do it twice.

"Suffice it to say, it has been resolved," said Severus.

"Oh?" she said. "Well, I can't make you tell me, and I'm glad everything is well. Does that mean you'll be leaving the country again, Severus?"

"Ah," said Severus. "No, not at present."

"But leaving Hogwarts, I presume?"

"Naturally," said Severus. "I have my own accommodations to return to." He considered that not strictly a lie, as the Forbidden Forest was not technically part of Hogwarts.

"A shame," said Harry, "We made quite a good teaching team."

Hermione's eyes went wide. Harry just grinned and slipped an arm through hers again.

"Come on, show me to this Buck's Fizz," he said, and Severus followed them out into the garden.

The garden was, naturally, an explosion of Weasleys, all of whom stopped what they were doing to hug, back-slap or shake hands with Harry. All except Arthur, who was stood in the centre of the aforementioned pavilion, carefully levitating an enormous pine wreath up to the ceiling. The pavilion, it turned out, was a spectacular construction of canvas and mismatched, unfinished wood. It was open-sided, and covered in a thousand sparkling fairy lights. The struts had been bedecked with live climbing ivy that glittered with everlasting icicles, and the ceiling trailed with long loops of thick, bushy tinsel. And several slowly spinning silver foil snowflakes. There was a long wooden trestle table under the pavilion, covered by red paper tablecloths and scattered with glitter and ribbon-wrapped boughs of holly. 

On a side table were two very large bottles of Prosecco, a jug of orange juice and an eccentric collection of champagne glasses, some of which had obviously been transfigured from other things. 

Severus left Harry to the outpouring of love, immensely grateful that he was back in his own body, and instead moved to help Arthur. Inside the pavilion was a pleasant bubble of cinnamon-scented, charm-warmed air, and Severus was immensely grateful. His robes were lined, but they had not been designed with standing outside in December in mind.

"Ah, hello, Severus," said Arthur as he approached. "Merry Christmas."

Distracted, Arthur let his wand hand down a little and the wreath lurched and wobbled. Severus pulled out his wand and cast his own charm, and together they moved the wreath upwards, hooking it over the large metal hook dangling from the marquee's apex.

"Thank you, Severus," said Arthur, when it was done. "My children all adults, but not one of them with the attention span to finish a job. Never mind, eh?" He tucked his wand into the back pocket of his trousers and offered Severus his hand to shake. Severus took it. They stood together for a moment, watching Harry delivering hugs to the horde. 

"Shame about that article in the _Prophet_ ," said Arthur. "Never did understand why they like to splash people's love lives over the front page. Or alleged love lives."

"Indeed," agreed Severus. 

"Harry was unusually calm about it, I hear."

"Yes," said Severus. "Barely murderous at all."

Arthur frowned slightly at his thwarted attempt to get any details out of Severus, but it didn't last; he was looking back to his children in a moment, softly smiling. Severus only risked a glance at him, then continued his contemplation of the scene. Harry was now hugging Fleur Delacour, pulling an awkward face over her shoulder at all the kisses.

"Well," said Arthur eventually. "You look very well, I must say. Courtesy of the Hogwarts kitchens, I hear?"

"Indeed," said Severus. And then, because he couldn't resist, "And Potter's training regimen hasn't hurt, either."

Arthur stared at him. Severus said nothing. Well, if the man was going to fish, he shouldn't be surprised when he got a bite.

When it became obvious Severus was not going to expand upon that extraordinary statement, Arthur changed tack.

"Have you met everyone yet, Severus? You know my children, of course."

Severus looked over them all. William Weasley, eldest, had withdrawn from the crowd talking to Harry to keep warm under the pavilion. Severus remembered him as a difficult student, always uncannily aware that Severus was young for a teacher and didn't have as much authority as he would have liked. He was wrapped in a Gryffindor scarf and now holding on to the waist of Fleur Delacour, Beauxbatons champion, who was smiling and whispering in his ear. George Weasley, looking unusually solemn, stood close to Harry and Ronald with a small, startlingly blonde child of about four perched on his hip. He was not talking, but instead watching his windburnt, shorter-haired sister Ginny talk to Luna Lovegood, Hermione and a girl Severus recognised as a one of the Gryffindor Quidditch players. They were obviously talking Quidditch, because Hermione looked politely bored. 

Severus, looking between the two groups, inadvertently caught George's eye. He looked away quickly. As soon as he did, his left ear began to ring; he was immediately suspicious, but George Weasley looked quite innocent as he set the little girl down on the floor and turned to Ron.

Percy and his wife stood stiffly to one side. Percy was in a shirt and tie, and Audrey was wearing an expensive silk dress robe that flowed elegantly over the curve of her pregnancy. She was shivering despite her position within the warming charms, Percy's jacket over her shoulders, and the expression on her face reminded him a little of Petunia Evans. On a chair beside the champagne was Andromeda Tonks, unsettlingly like her sister Bellatrix except for the light brown hair and deep-etched smile lines. He looked around for the boy, her grandson, who was currently pulling on Harry's arm, his hair a vibrant, familiar shade of green. The expression of innocent love on both their faces hurt to look at. 

To one side of the group, leaning against the wall of the Burrow and looking completely unbothered by the cold, was a tall, broad man with tanned skin and dark hair, biceps wider than the average man's head, a short mohican haircut and a shiny burn scar on his face. Beside him was the smaller, but almost as muscular, form of Charlie Weasley, who was wearing a leather jacket and had acquired a lip ring since Severus had seen him last.

"I believe I have been introduced to everyone except Percival's wife, the gentleman with the large burn, and the children," he said.

"Ah, well I shall let Harry do the honours with little Teddy and Victoire, he's quite good with children, you know," said Arthur, and he looked something between triumphant and troubled when Severus couldn't hide his horror. 

Severus looked to Harry, chatting contentedly with the Lupin boy. This was the sort of question you asked, he realised. When you were normal. When you were _dating_. Would Harry want children? Severus might be willing to try a halfway-normal adult relationship, but there were some things he could not imagine...

"But that's Audrey, she's not the warmest but she puts up with Percy and he seems happy enough so that's good, and that's Marius with Charlie. Bit of a shock, it's our first time meeting him you see, they flew in yesterday. Bill has always assured me Charlie's not likely to have been lonely in Romania, but this is the first time he's brought anyone _home_. Seems like a nice chap, very quiet and polite, bit of a serious fellow but seems to have a sense of humour if you can get more than a few words out of him. Molly has her concerns about the age difference, but fifteen years between adult wizards is hardly an unbridgeable divide, wouldn't you say?"

Severus looked at the large man again; what with the tattoos, the dragonhide trousers and the substantial facial burn, he had not really noticed that Marius was likely older than him.

He looked back at Arthur, who looked completely, suspiciously casual. Severus was uncomfortably aware that there were in fact _twenty_ years between himself and Harry, but he suspected that those extra five years would not be the dealbreaker when it came to Arthur's approval. No, he would have plenty of reasons to withhold that.

He looked back to Harry, not sure if it were dread or longing that pulled at his chest. Harry was now kneeling next to the blonde child and the Lupin boy, laughing at their earnest conversation; he caught Severus's eye and looked suddenly nervous, as though he'd been caught doing something terrible.

Severus had the involuntary thought that he would have a hundred children, if it wiped that look off Potter's face. _Merlin_. It was a small mercy Potter couldn't see inside his head, or he would run a mile.

Harry whispered something to the children, and all three of them headed in his direction. Severus tried to look nonchalant.

"Severus, this is Teddy Lupin and Victoire, Bill and Fleur's daughter. Teddy is my godson. Sometimes I stay over at Teddy's house during the summer for a bit, to help Andromeda."

"Hello," said the boy, Teddy, looking up at him with familiar amber eyes. "Uncle Harry says you went to school with my dad."

Severus looked at Harry, horrified.

"Don't worry," said Harry, "I told him you... weren't friends."

Severus sighed. A hundred children or no, Harry would be better off knowing Severus's dubious paternal nature from the start.

"Yes," he agreed solemnly, looking at the child. "We didn't get on at school. And also, there was a time when he nearly ate me."

Teddy, with the simplicity of childhood, simply giggled at this.

" _Really?_ " he said.

"Accidentally," Severus conceded. "Really it was all Harry's godfather's fault."

Teddy turned to Harry, scandalised. Harry, who was staring at Severus in blank horror, noticed his attention after a moment and looked down at him.

"Well, yes, we all do silly things when we're young," he said weakly, after a moment.

"Like the time Cousin Draco got a bad tattoo," said Teddy wisely. Harry laughed at this slightly garbled version of Draco Malfoy's terrible life choices.

"He _ate_ you?" said Victoire, like a girl who knew she understood all the _words_ of the sentence, but could not grasp the meaning.

"Yeah," said Teddy, his hair going as amber as his eyes. "Daddy was a _werewolf,_ " he said to her, as though this were the coolest thing in the world. "That means that when the moon was full up he stopped being a nice man and turned into a WOLF MONSTER and was SO SCARY and would CHASE PEOPLE like this, RAARGH!"

Victoire screamed in horrified delight and ran away from him. Teddy chased her, making noises that sounded more like a lion than a werewolf. 

Harry folded his arms and looked at Severus.

"He deserves to know the truth," said Severus, shrugging. "You'll note he seems untroubled by my near-demise."

"It _wasn't Lupin's fault_ ," said Harry.

"You'll also note that I said that," said Severus.

"Don't take out your hatred on Teddy," said Harry, and he sounded dangerous.

"I wasn't," said Severus. "I was making conversation. The boy seems perfectly agreeable, and can hardly help his unfortunate parentage."

Severus knew full well what this would do to Harry. He wondered why he was saying it. Harry's face was a beacon of fury; he opened his mouth as though he wanted to shout, looked around at his company, and then stalked off.

Severus's left ear was ringing again. He looked around at George, but the man looked deep in conversation with Ginny.

Severus counted to ten, and then went to follow Harry. He'd stomped off down to the bottom of the garden, and Severus saw him slip behind a rickety garden shed. Leaning against the shed wall, Harry looked pale, and his shoulders were shaking. Severus slipped his hand into his pocket and cast a warming charm around them both. 

Harry shifted away.

"I can't pretend I liked any of them," said Severus, which was not the apology he'd meant to say.

"I can't _believe_ you!" said Harry, voice taut with the effort of controlling his volume. "Talking like that. To an _orphan_ , telling him you didn't like his dad, telling him he was a monster. And then _you_ , of all people, having the cheek to say you won't hold someone's parents against them!"

Severus sighed. His own bed, how beautifully he'd made it. He'd climb right in with a sneer, except that Harry's face looked so wounded and he'd never deserved it and _none_ of them had deserved it, not even James bloody Potter, dead and in the ground at the age of twenty-one.

"Yes, so completely out of character for me," he said, but held up his hands when Harry whirled, mouth opening on his furious protest. "Wait, Potter— _Harry._ I said that because—because I know it was _wrong_ , idiot boy. To hold your parents against you. To see only your father in your face. To hold _him_ against you. I had reasons, and I had excuses, and none of them were good enough. None of them justified your suffering. You didn't deserve it."

Harry shut his mouth with a click of teeth.

"I—" said Harry. "Right. Good. Just... give me a minute, yeah?"

Severus wanted to reach out, wanted to do something, anything to get rid of that twisted, painful expression, but he knew he couldn't.

If it had to hurt, let it be sooner rather than later, thought Severus. Before he was in too deep to recover.

"Very well," said Severus, and stalked away.

People were beginning to sit down at the table when he returned. Severus avoided this for a moment in favour of going for the wine. He noticed Ron and Hermione watching him with deep suspicion.

"Ah, Sev'rus!" said Fleur Delacour, interrupting his train of thought completely and catching him by the arm. "'Ow nice to see you again! We never 'ad ze chance to introduce ourselves properly while I was at 'ogwarts. Merry Christmas!"

"Ah, _oui. Joyeux noel,_ " said Severus absently.

" _Tu parles franÃ§ais?_ " said Fleur, startled and delighted.

" _Un peu_ ," said Severus, but Fleur immediately began a barrage of French that Severus struggled to follow. Thankfully, it seemed largely not to warrant a response, a monologue on how she missed hearing her native tongue and her family and a proper French _Noel_ , with occasional questions on where he'd picked the language up, and then a few half-disparaging comments about Normandy and enquiries as to how he found it. He confessed that he'd moved back to Britain, and as they chatted he became aware that around half of the party were listening to their unintelligible conversation with expressions of slightly bemused intrigue.

Then Fleur asked about the newspaper. Nearly everyone perked up at the recognisable words, _Daily Prophet._

"All true, of course," said Severus, in French. "He's a handsome man, I'm sure you'll agree, and I am weak."

Fleur laughed delightedly; he couldn't tell if she thought he was serious, or if she cared either way. Half of the room looked like they might die of the curiosity.

Bill gave him a very odd look.

He glanced in the direction of the shed and saw Harry, leaning against a post of the pavilion and watching the conversation. He was biting his lip and staring, which was an encouraging expression.

"Come, sit wiz us," said Fleur, pulling him by the arm to sit beside her at one end of the table, Bill and little Victoire on her other side. "You 'ave met Marius?" she gestured to the large man opposite. "No? Ah, zis is Marius, Charlie's..."

"Strapping Romanian lover," supplied Charlie, looking at Severus as though he expected him to say something disparaging.

"Strapping is one way to put it," said Severus. "Nice to meet you."

"You speak Romanian?" said Marius, looking hopeful.

"No, I'm afraid not," said Severus.

"Oh," said Marius, clearly disappointed.

"It is not completely dissimilar from French," said Fleur approvingly. "Although ze pronunciation..."

Marius looked apologetic on behalf of his language. Charlie rolled his eyes at her.

"Everyone says it's hard," he said. "But I don't find it too bad."

"You are very bad," said Marius, with a snort. "Ten years in Romania. Still speaks like child."

Severus snorted. Fleur politely covered her laugh behind her hand. Charlie looked unapologetic and affectionate.

Then Harry slipped into the seat beside him, and Severus's brief respite from madness was lost.

"That sounded good. Your French," said Harry.

"You'd have to ask Miss Delacour about that," he said.

"It was not _too_ bad," said Fleur, which Severus knew to be a compliment. "And it's Madame Weasley, Sev'rus. Although I should much prefer Fleur."

"Of course, Fleur," said Severus. Harry eyed him suspiciously; he wondered if he were checking him for signs of Veela influence, and decided to follow up his comment with a small smile in her direction. Harry's eyes definitely narrowed.

Andromeda and Teddy came to sit down opposite Harry, Teddy insisting that he wanted to be facing him; Ron took Harry's left side, Hermione beside him. The only people who were not sat, now, were Molly, Arthur and George. They appeared, however, several moments later, each of them surrounded by a dozen floating dishes, which they piled amongst the holly boughs and glitter on the table until the thing was looking rather bowed in the centre. Severus surreptitiously cast a strengthening charm at the nearest table legs.

"Well," said Arthur, once he'd seated himself at the head of the table. "Here we all are. I'd like to propose a toast before we start, but I'll keep it short. To my wife, beautiful inside and out, and a darn good cook. To Molly Weasley!"

A loud chorus of, "To Mum!" "To Molly!" or "To Mrs Weasley!" rang out, the last coming from Harry. Then it was a chaos of serving and eating, chatting and joking, and Severus focused on his food rather than attempting to join in. Fleur seemed to cope admirably with the barrage of noise in a second tongue; Marius, he thought with sympathy, looked completely lost.

Harry was quiet, mostly; Severus heard the odd protest or sarcastic retort, but largely he seemed to be listening. He had a smile on his face, though, and endless time to listen to little Teddy, who seemed frequently frustrated by his inability to get a sentence out over the din.

The third time Harry's knee pressed against Severus's, Severus felt sure it had not been an accident. Severus was not going to assume complete forgiveness, but it was an encouraging sign.

There was a great deal of wine floating above the table, and someone had charmed it to top you up when you weren't looking. Harry was looking rather flushed. 

Dinner went on for several long and happy hours, but as the afternoon sun began to stream into the pavilion, people began to say their goodbyes. First Percy and Audrey, then Luna, floating away in her mad pink robes, then Andromeda left carrying a crying Teddy away with promises there would be more presents at Aunty Narcissa's house if he was good. Harry stared after the wailing boy, distraught; Severus was fairly sure little Teddy added the, "But Granny, _I want Harry!_ " just to upset him. Harry would be a terribly indulgent parent, Severus could tell.

Eventually, with clear regret on Bill's face and slightly less convincing regret on Fleur's, the two of them took a sleepy Victoire away to visit her Aunty Gabrielle. Severus received the barrage of goodbye kisses with gratitude, because it seemed to bother Harry in a pleasing way. Then Molly was attempting to begin the tidying, and everyone else was attempting to stop her, until Arthur finally threw a stasis charm over the table, put out all the candles, and shooed them all away towards the lounge.

Inside, in the corridor, for what felt like the hundredth time, Severus's left ear began to ring. He whirled; sure enough, there was George Weasley, tucking his wand up his sleeve and unable to control his smirk.

" _Weasley!_ " he said, aware that it was a little absurd in a house full of them.

"Only fair," said George, grinning and pointing at his missing ear, and Severus felt his patience snap. He had had _enough_. He'd tried to be nice, he'd tried and he'd already failed once, he couldn't do it and trying for Harry was nothing but doomed folly, and he'd be damned if he'd take this sort of thing from George sodding Weasley, a man who only stood there today because of him—

Harry's hand came from nowhere, grabbing his arm.

"He knows," said Harry simply. George raised his eyebrows.

"Yeah, I know. I owe you," he agreed. "And I'm grateful, Snape. Thing is, I have no intention of letting you off the pranking just because you're a big fancy war hero like Potty wee Potter over here." Potter snorted. Severus knew, now, that Harry appreciated this sort of mockery from his friends, even if he hated it from his enemies. "In fact, I hear from the papers that you've practically married into the family, which means _double_ the prank potential."

"George!" protested Harry, and Severus was amused to note he was going red.

Severus breathed a heavy sigh, anger dissipating. Angelina Johnson came up behind them then, looking suspiciously at the scene, and Harry gave her an apologetic smile and headed for the lounge.

Severus took a deep breath, stuck his hands in his pockets, and muttered a hex that would cause George's underwear to ride inexorably upwards over the course of the evening. 

It was only fair.

*

Harry couldn't decide if this Christmas was the best, or the worst. It was good, because there was the endless discovery that was Severus Snape; Severus talking in French to Fleur, Severus casually helping Arthur with decorations, Severus telling absolutely everyone to call him Severus. Severus _not_ hexing George's other ear off.

Then there was Severus, talking to Teddy. He could see now that Severus had not intended or expected to upset Teddy, and had even enjoyed the boy's endearingly innocent responses to the simple truth of things, but it still _hurt_.

They were crammed into the Weasley lounge now, all eleven of them. Mr and Mrs Weasley sat together on one sofa, and Ron pulled Harry and Hermione onto the other, Hermione with her legs over Ron's lap. Ginny perched agreeably on the arm of Harry's side of the chair, which Harry noticed seemed to make Severus twitch, and then Charlie and Marius squeezed into the window seat together. George and Angelina sat on the floor beside the fire, and Severus, cautiously, sat in the armchair that had apparently been left for him.

Harry was disappointed. As silly as it was, he'd rather been hoping for an excuse for them to be squished together.

The Weasley family had all opened their presents to each other that morning, so this ceremony was largely for Harry's benefit. Harry handed out his presents, and received a small pile in return. He was surprised when Snape not only pulled out a vast hamper of Normandy delicacies addressed _to the Weasley family, with thanks,_ but also that he received a gaudy parcel himself. 

Severus, looking bemused, unwrapped it and held it up. It was, to Harry's delight and amusement, a Weasley jumper. It was a dark, forest green, quite understated really, but Harry could see from here that it had a cable-knit pattern down the front.

"Oh mum, you _didn't_ ," said Charlie, who had taken off his leather jacket to reveal his own Weasley jumper.

"Snape, if you put that on right now and wear it for the rest of the evening I will give you _ten whole galleons,_ " said George, who was shifting uncomfortably on the floor despite several cushions.

Severus looked at George. He looked at Harry. And then he pulled on the jumper.

Harry felt the last of his anger melt away.

"Oh, boys," scolded Molly, "if you think they're so terrible, why do I catch you in them all the time, hmm?"

"They're pretty comfy," admitted Ginny.

"All the guys at camp want one," said Charlie.

"It's lovely, Molly, thank you," said Severus, and to Harry's delight he looked genuinely touched.

"Not bad for a last minute job," said Molly, beaming, "It looks very good on you. Although I have to admit I started it to give to Percy. Arthur advised me not to waste my wool, and got him a nice pen instead."

It actually _was_ kind of nice on him, thought Harry. It might go quite well with the jeans and a long scarf...

Then Severus silently threw him his own present. It was, to Harry's pleasure, a pair of soft leather flying gloves and a large jar of what Harry presumed, from the picture, was racing-quality broom polish. The label, of course, was in French.

"Ooh, let's see!" said Ginny, taking the gloves off him. "Nice, great quality stitching, and ooh, feel the warming charms!"

Harry let her play with them for a minute, giving Snape a smile.

"Thanks," he said softly. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see both Ron and Hermione looking deeply suspicious and also, kind of... _resigned_.

Harry pulled out his present for Severus, and got up to hand it to him. Their fingers touched, and Harry wished it could be for longer. Everyone stopped their admiration of Harry's gifts in order to watch him unwrap the small glass vial. 

Severus examined it carefully, then unstoppered it and gave it a sniff.

"Essence of dittany?" he said curiously.

"As if," said Harry, remembering Severus's sarcastic notes in his Potions journal, and Snape looked both surprised and amused. "It's related, though. Can't pronounce it to save my life, but it's rare, grows on some special mountain in the Himalayas, some ancient magically-significant site. Anyway, it's supposed to be incredibly good for scarring, like, amazingly good. I dunno if it might be handy in a potion, but Neville said that if you just dab a bit externally and then swig the rest it could work wonders all on its own."

The whole room looked at Severus. Severus looked at the bottle.

"Longbottom?" he said, sceptically.

"Only the magical world's most respected herbologist, and kind of a famous explorer," said Harry sarcastically.

Severus shook his head. Then he put the bottle to his lips, tilted his head back and swallowed.

"Urgh," he said, when half the little bottle was gone, and Arthur handed him a bottle of port and a glass from the mantelpiece to wash down the taste. 

There was a moment of silence. Severus stared at Harry.

"Potter," he said, experimentally. "Ten points from Gryffindor. For having an annoying face."

His voice came out smooth, silky, still a little rougher than it used to be but undeniably _better_. Harry beamed; Ginny laughed, and then that set everyone off, and it was good because that, and George's demands to pass the port his way, distracted everyone from the fact that Severus's eyes were sparkling with something that could have been tears.

*

There was a great deal more conversation, and more port, after the presents. Severus was content in the armchair for a long while, taking drinks as they were offered, watching Harry laugh, and catching his name on the lips of his company a few times, whispered or muttered.

As Harry and Severus took their leave and stepped, one by one, into the Floo, Severus heard one last snatch of gossip.

"Okay," said George, "I knew Christmas with Snape was going to be weird, but that was _not_ what I expected. I will bet a _hundred galleons_ there is something going on there."

"We'd be fools to take that bet, I reckon," said Ron, but he didn't get to hear their reaction because the Burrow was gone, spiraling away in a burst of green flame. 

Severus wondered whether anyone had noticed the two of them had Flooed to the same place.

In Harry's rooms there was blissful quiet, and no light except for the smouldering fire. Severus looked at Harry, wondering if he needed to say something, do something to smooth out their earlier fight. 

Harry just smiled.

"That went well," he said.

"It laid some groundwork, if you're serious about... telling people," Severus agreed. "There's not a single person in the Weasley family who does not harbour a suspicion now. I suppose we can thank the _Prophet_ for that after all... I imagine they wouldn't have read quite as much into it if they hadn't all read it."

Harry looked thrilled with this, as though he hadn't realised any of it.

"Do you think they'll be okay?" he said.

"If we do not murder each other in the next six months I expect they'll come to terms," said Severus. He was painfully aware that he and Harry were not touching—the space between their bodies felt like a hot, solid barrier. 

"You know," said Harry. "There's something we need to do. Wanna do it now?"

"It's likely," growled Severus, giving up, pulling Harry tight against him. "What is it?"

"Return the totem, of course," said Harry, eyes alight with mischief. Severus scowled, and tugged him into a kiss; he tasted of wine and Christmas pudding.

"It's the middle of the night," said Snape, a moment later, when they were both breathless.

"It's not," said Harry. "Not yet. We could be back in bed by midnight."

"The museum is closed."

"What better time to sneak in?" said Harry.

"I have no desire to be arrested for breaking into a museum on Christmas night," said Severus.

"Where's your sense of adventure?" said Harry.

"Where's your sense of getting into bed and doing obscene things to each other?" complained Severus. Harry half-gasped, half-laughed.

"A very Slytherin ploy, but you underestimate my stubbornness," he said. He looked up at Severus through long lashes, part plea and part dare.

"Fine," said Severus heavily. "I suppose I'll be glad to see the back of the bloody thing."

"It doesn't _have_ a back," said Harry, giggling, and Severus swatted him.

They flew to Hogsmeade, still in their Christmas clothes, Harry wearing his new gloves, the pair of them weaving only a little. They swooped past tall pines and bare oaks, rocky outcrops and the curve of the Hogsmeade path, then dived through smoking chimneys and down past warm bubbles of light and sound. Severus could hear the sound of distant carols.

They set down in the dark shadow of Hogsmeade Village Museum. Severus nearly slipped on the ice and let out a startled yelp; Harry caught him and shushed him, an act that made their approach all the louder. 

They stood for a moment in the doorway, leaning close against the chill. Harry failed to repress his giggles.

"What now, oh brave and mighty Gryffindor?" drawled Severus.

"Strategy is your job," said Harry. "But, you know... _Alohomora_!"

To Severus's immense irritation, the door popped open with a quiet _click._

They stole through the museum with all the stealth of an ex-Auror and an ex-spy who'd spent the whole day drinking Christmas wine. Harry very nearly knocked over the half-assembled shards of a Roman-era Pensieve; Severus caught him, pulling him close, and it took all the willpower he had not to stop and kiss the sparkle of moonlight that glinted on Harry's lower lip.

The plinth which had held the totem was still there, dusty and bare, as though the ancient curator hadn't even noticed its absence. Severus set the thing back with false solemnity.

"I wonder if we shouldn't—" began Harry, but then light streamed across the dusty floor. Someone had lit a lamp on the other side of a door. Severus dragged Harry into the shadows, covering his mouth.

The door opened. Framed in the light, at the foot of a small bare wood staircase, stood the museum's ancient caretaker. The old man raised his wand, lighting the tip.

"Well?" said a distant, warbling female voice.

"I don't see anything — oh, it's back again!" he called out to the woman up the stairs, as his wand-light illuminated the dreadful totem.

"That took longer than usual!" said the distant voice. "I wonder where it went?"

"Potter," whispered Severus, close in Harry's ear, "Let's go. I daresay we can outrun him even if he hears us. And we have... _things to do_." 

"Oh?" murmured Harry, and the warm tone made Severus feel as though everything was going to be alright. It had been a long time coming, happiness like this, and Severus was going to do his absolute best to deserve it.

He tugged Harry towards the open door. Harry followed, shaking with silent laughter, and they slipped out into the night with their hands entwined. 

"Come to bed, Oliver," said the old lady's voice, but Harry and Severus were not around to hear it. The museum curator looked around the room once more, smiled to himself, and said:

"Coming, Clarissa, my love. _Nox._ "

**Author's Note:**

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